Gates of Summer
by theherocomplex
Summary: Two universes. Two sets of brothers. Two gods who decided to use the planet as their personal battleground. As usual, it's up to Donnie to fix it. (The fourth installment of the GaVG 'verse, sequel to "Walking Wounded")
1. Interlude: Westron Wynde, Part One

**Note: **This 'verse is structured in such a way that makes things a bit confusing when I post on this site, with Interludes bridging the larger, more action-oriented arcs and drabbles sprinkled in between. For reference, this fic begins a few hours after the end of _Walking Wounded_, and starts the build-up to the confrontation with the Boar.

And off we go!

* * *

"Donnie, you've blown me off for more than a month. I'm starting to take it personally."

Donnie groans. The last thing he wants to hear right now is Jenny's voice, pulling him out of the sweet cocoon of his bed. He's managed to wrap himself around someone small and very warm, and all he wants is to go back to sleep as he shamelessly steals a little more body heat from that small, warm someone.

"_Donnie._ I shouldn't have to hack your computer just make sure you're okay. Wake up!"

With one more groan for good measure, Donnie rolls onto his back and turns his head to his laptop. He blinks wearily at the screen, where Jenny watches him, eyebrows raised.

"What do you want," he says, not quite a question. His voice sounds like it's been dragged through a street full of rocks and broken glass.

"Oh good, you're up." Jenny pushes a hand through her hair. "Seriously, Donnie, I don't know what's going on with you, but this whole ignoring me thing is —_ holy shit._" Her eyes flick over him, then widen as her mouth drops open. She recovers almost immediately, but two spots of color dance high on her cheeks. "Bad timing?"

"What?" he asks, still sleep-fuzzed. When he follows her gaze, he finds April curled into his side, one hand hooked around the leather straps crossing his chest.

Donnie speaks seven languages and still doesn't have a word for the dread that wakes in his gut when his ex-girlfriend sees the love of his life snoring in his arms. Within seconds, he's more awake than he wants to be, and trying to untangle himself from the knot April and his blanket have wound around him. Even asleep, April is no help; when he tries to peel her fingers off his straps, she huffs and curls her fingers tighter, murmuring something he doesn't catch.

There's a muffled explosion of what might be laughter from his laptop, and Donnie glares at Jenny, who looks back innocently. Only the gleam in her eyes gives her away. Donnie knows all too well what that gleam means, and the dread in his gut blossoms into outright fear.

"Atta boy, Donnie," says Jenny, her widest shit-stirring smile splitting open her face.

"Two minutes," he whispers, finally managing to slip out of April's grip. Explaining April in his bed to Jenny will be just one more indignity in a life full to brimming with them. "Two minutes, and I'll call you back from the lab."

Jenny rolls her eyes as she nods, still grinning, and signs off without another word.

Getting out of bed takes longer than two minutes. The moment he swings his legs off his futon and tries to stand, hot pain tracks up from the soles of his feet, and the deep gouges in his thighs strain their stitches. He inhales, eyes closed as he prepares himself, and stands up slowly.

He's been hurt worse before — Slash comes to mind immediately, with the familiar shiver of fear — but the cuts in his feet are the kind of low-grade misery that will linger for weeks. He'll be useless until then, and the realization carries another, darker thought with it: that the attack might not have been meant to kill him and Casey, but disable them.

But for what? He shudders, and hears the wind again, cold enough to drive away the last of April's warmth.

_It eats. That's what it does. _

"Donnie?"

He glances down to find April blinking sleepily at him from his futon. She pushes her hair out of her face and smiles. If only he could freeze this moment, set it in glass and amber, to bring out whenever the weight on his back gets too heavy: April's smile, her hair on his pillows, the hollow in the mattress where his body rested next to hers for a few hours.

"Where're you going?" she asks through a yawn.

Donnie swallows. There's nothing he wants more than to crawl back into bed with April, where the worst he has to worry about is not staring too long, but — no.

_Get it together_, he tells himself, as he smiles back at her. He hopes his smile looks more reassuring than it feels. _She stayed because she felt bad. Don't make it more than it is. _

A second, plaintive voice speaks up: _but what if —?_ He shuts it down, stamps on its neck, and waits until the echoes fade before he answers April.

"Jenny called — I'm going to go talk to her in the lab."

April stretches with a grimace and a nod. Her shirt rides up, ever so slightly, and Donnie looks away from the pale strip of skin exposed by her movement. "Okay. Tell her I said hi." She rolls onto her belly and pillows her head on her arms. "Can I stay here?"

"Of course! Uh, yes. Sure. Sleep well. Yes." _Shut up,_ he yells silently to himself, _just shut up and _go.

April's only response is a sleepy sigh and another smile as she nestles deeper into his bed. The two minutes Donnie promised Jenny are long up, but he stares, willing his aching feet to move, until April is asleep again.

* * *

The call barely connects before Jenny's face fills the screen. Donnie tries not to look at the time, but the knowledge that he's only gotten three hours of sleep fills him with deep, hopeless resignation.

"You did it!" Jenny squeals, without preamble. "Donnie! You — oh my _god_, I'm so — you are completely forgiven for ignoring me. Completely." She beams at him, and the urge to cradle his head in his hands nearly overwhelms him. He's too tired to tell Jenny she's got the wrong end of the stick, but his expression — or lack of one — is enough of a response. Her grin melts away like butter in a hot pan.

"Are you _kidding_ me? She's — oh for fuck's sake, Donnie, you can't let her just play around like that!" He hears a muffled thud as Jenny slaps her desk.

"Hey!" he snaps. "It's not — it's not like that, okay? I asked her to stay. She's not —" He closes his eyes as Jenny throws up her hands.

"She's not _what_, Donnie?" Jenny stares at him, her face hard with anger and — loyalty?

Maybe it shouldn't, but it still amazes him that people beside his family can care about him — that people can be more than neutral, that they can defend him and love him, even when he's not offering anything for their direct benefit.

"It's been a…hard month," he says, lamely. Jenny's brows pucker together, and she makes an impatient _hurry-up_ gesture with both hands.

Donnie swallows. Jenny doesn't know, because he couldn't be bothered to tell her. The roof, Rahzar, Karai, the door to April's room slamming shut. Was that just a few hours ago?

His head starts to ache, and a long shriek of wind slips through him, full of icy teeth.

"What happened to you, Donnie?"

He lets out a bleak laugh. Telling it means reliving it, every frantic, lonely moment. The blood on his hands, the teeth in his skin.

"April — April fell, Jenny," he begins, his voice fraying like old thread.

"My god," Jenny breathes, an hour later, when Donnie finishes talking. His throat aches, and what started out as sleepiness has bled into exhaustion. But the tale is told, and Jenny's hostility is gone. That's something, right? Now they can talk about anything other than myths come to life and how he _failed_ and -

"Did you say the White Boar?" Jenny asks.

Donnie nods, leaning his chin on his hand. "Yeah, some old fairy tale Splinter told us when we were kids. Karai's just using it to get under Leo's skin. What a mess." He sighs, almost missing the way Jenny twitches, what little color she has in her cheeks draining away. "What is it?"

She licks her lips and cuts her eyes away from his. Donnie groans; Jenny's tells are so obvious to him now that it's possible he knows what she's going to say before she does.

Right on cue, she says "Stephen had a dream," and Donnie groans again, even louder.

"Oh, good," he snaps. "Because that's just what I want to hear about, your _psychic husband's dreams_." He regrets what he said as soon as it leaves his mouth, and Jenny's hurt look only twists the knife. "I'm — I'm sorry," he says. "But honestly, Jenny, after the night I just had? I don't want to hear about dreams. I want to be _asleep._" _Asleep with April, _he thinks, and flushes.

"Donnie, this is — just listen, okay? I know you hate this stuff but…" Jenny rubs her mouth. "I think it might be important."

He slumps down in his chair, wincing as one of the gouges pulls at its stitches, and nods. Easier to get it over with now.

"He, uh, he dreamed of New York." Jenny rubs her mouth again, going even paler as she speaks. "And there was this pig, walking through the streets. This huge, white pig."

The tips of Donnie's fingers go cold. He ignores them, focusing on Jenny's voice.

"And uh, then it stopped, and started rooting, like it was trying to dig something up. It pulled the street apart and it kept digging and digging until it —" She pauses, steadying herself. "I swear to God, Donnie, I thought this was just some random weird dream, but after what you just said…oh my god."

"Jenny, tell me," he says, hating himself for always needing to _know_. He should be telling her to stop talking, like he does every other time she tells him about one of Stephen's dreams, but his damned curiosity won't be satisfied until he hears the rest. The chill creeps up his hands, through his wrists.

"It found a nest," she says, her voice small. "And there were, there were turtles in the nest."

_Your brothers are far away. So very far away. _

"And a rat," Jenny says.

_Let me show you just how far away your family is._

"Stop it," Donnie says, but Jenny doesn't listen as she forces out the last few words.

"And the pig — it ate them. It ate all of them except one."

"Stop it!" he yells, and smashes his fist down on the table. "It's nothing, Jenny, it's just a stupid dream."

_Who am I trying to convince? _

"Stephen's never wrong," she whispers, not meeting his eyes. "Not when he dreams like this. And it's too close — rats, turtles, the pig? And what the pig _did_?" Jenny lifts her head, jaw set. "I've heard the story too, Donnie. And weirder things have happened to you."

_It eats. That's what the White Boar does, it eats, says Karai, reaching for Leo. _

Donnie shakes his head, pushing the memory away. "I know you believe," he says, too tired to hide his disdain. "But I don't. I'm not going to jump just because Stephen had a dream that matches up with some old story. It's not real, Jenny. It's just one of Karai's tricks."

_You don't really believe that, do you, Donnie? _asks the plaintive voice from earlier. _Part of you is starting to wonder if there could be truth in that old story_._ And that scares you. An enemy this powerful, that can get into your head and play around with what it finds? It's your worst nightmare._

Without thinking, he moves his hand to his belt, where the tooth is tucked into a pouch. The point is sharp enough to have already worn away the leather. He winces as it catches at his skin. There's hunger in it yet, a mystery he has to solve. And he will, because that's what he does.

"Donnie —"

He waves her words away. "No. I'm sorry, but it's not rational."

"April's powers are gone, Donnie, and Karai is back. Nothing about this is _rational_. I know you don't want to consider it, but maybe —"

"No! I don't need this! The White Boar is a _story_!" Donnie blazes, exhaustion pushing him out of frustration and into anger. What he needs twelve more hours of sleep, not guesswork and myth. He leans forward and jabs a finger at the screen; on her end, Jenny jerks backward. "Normally I'd appreciate you playing Devil's Advocate, but not today. I'm not going to waste my time on a stupid fairy tale, not when we have actual enemies to worry about. I have the tooth, and I'll track down however those things were made, and then we'll stop them. It's what we always do."

"The dream —"

"Was just a _dream_, Jenny, and I thought you'd be smart enough to recognize that."

Jenny opens her mouth, too shocked to even splutter, and signs off without another word.

* * *

Donnie debates the merits of apologizing via email versus trying to get Jenny back on Skype long enough to hear the rest of the family stir awake. The bizarre architecture in the lair means all sound is funneled toward the lab, so Donnie hears Casey yell, Raph yelling back, and Mikey hollering at them both from the kitchen. And he hears the doors to his room and Leo's open at the same time, and April and Leo murmur at each other as they walk away.

What does Leo think of April creeping out of Donnie's room? Did she try to sneak out, like the few hours they slept curled around each other were something to be ashamed of?

_No, _says the new voice, the one he fights so hard against. _She wouldn't. She's not ashamed of you, she —_

The lab door creaks open, and the smell of coffee hits his nose, thick and bitter and blessedly hot.

"Hey, you," says April, her voice still sleep-rough. "Figured you'd need coffee after talking to Jenny."

Donnie huffs, smiling in spite of the regret moving through him. April's here. She forgave him. She stayed with him. Oh, at least there's one good thing that came out of last night. "You figured right." Before he can turn around to face April, a message pops up on his screen. It has to be Jenny, ready to ream him out for being an ass, and he's ready to let her.

_Hello, Donatello, _says the message. _Do you hear the wind blow?_

He blinks. There's no sender attached to the message, no name, no icon, just eight black words floating on a white background. As he stares at the screen, another message pops up.

_Did you ever wonder what the Kraang did to April when they took her, that last time? _

_She said she was fine, she said they just made her sleep, and you believed her. _

_Oh, Donatello. _

_You have always suffered from an overabundance of hope._

April's footsteps slow down behind him, and she calls his name, but Donnie can't look away from the screen. His heart no longer seems to be beating. Her voice is drowned out by the high, laughing song of the wind.

_Did you ever consider that they may have given her an expiration date? _

"No," Donnie chokes out, just before a tiny_ chink_ echoes behind him. He spins around in time to watch the second mug of coffee tumble out of April's limp hand, and fall to the floor without breaking.

Donnie is loyal, Donnie is smart, Donnie is fast and brave and strong, and none of that gets him out of his chair before April's eyes flicker, and whatever makes her _April_, that clever light, that subtle fierceness, drains out of her gaze.

She falls slowly, gracefully, all the lines of her body breaking, and this is — this is not right, this is a joke —

This is hell.

Donnie catches her before her head hits the ground. He saves her from that, cradles her neck in the crook of his elbow and pulls her against his plastron. All his prohibitions against touch are forgotten; he touches her face, her neck, her hands, and doesn't realize he's calling her name until the echoes ricochet off the walls and back down to him.

And then, he realizes, he's not calling her name so much as he's begging.

"April, April, oh god, April, come on, look at me." He takes her chin in his hand and turns her face up to his, stroking her cheek with his thumb, trying to meet her eyes. "Please, don't — please, just look at me."

Her eyes are open, their blue as bright as always, but she won't look at him. She can't look at him.

When he touches her throat, her skin is cool under his fingers, and that's even worse than how the rhythm of her pulse has stopped. April can't be cool. She was warm an hour ago, in his bed, warm enough for them both, and breathing, and now she's not, now she isn't moving, now she's more like a bundle of sticks in his arms than a person, fragile and thin and _cold, _how can April be _cold_?

"No!" He's screaming now, and April is still not looking at him. "April, please — April!"

The wind roars.

April is —

"No," he says, drawing her closer, holding her so tightly it hurts his arms, but April doesn't say anything. The last thing she said was his name, and now her mouth hangs open, an empty room in an abandoned house, because she is…_not. _April is undone.

A distant, irrelevant part of him wonders why no one has heard his cries, why no one has come to see what's gone wrong in the lab, what could make their brother scream this way.

It doesn't matter. If Donnie couldn't stop this, what could the others do?

Donnie holds April until even the wind in his head goes quiet, and he's left alone, his mind a perfect blank. She's not waking up, she's not coming back, and he doesn't know what to do. He has nothing. So he stays where he is, beyond tears, and watches April's face until a soft sigh intrudes.

When he looks up, a woman smiles down at him. A beautiful woman, with a gentle mouth and kind eyes, dressed all in white. When she speaks, her voice is tender as a mother's.

"You never planned for this, did you, my brave Donatello?" The woman's smile widens, teeth sharp as a winter wind. "You never once thought you would have to outlive her."


	2. Interlude: Westron Wynde, Part Two

_Humans. _

_The Boar remembers them, just as it remembers mist rising over a lake at dawn, as it remembers running, chill air in its nostrils, as it remembers the dew-stricken morning as it ran, and ran, the only sounds its hoofbeats and the baying of the hounds behind it. _

_It remembers the spear in its flank._

_Humans. _

_Their skin pinked by the cold, air steaming in front of their mouths. The hounds held, uncertain, whining — they knew the look in the boar's eyes, even if the humans commanding them did not. The hounds knew. The hounds always knew. _

_When the Boar — still just a boar, not a god, just a mute starving beast, lost in winter — turned, the hounds broke away, howling and threading through the legs of the horses. One human, caught off balance, fell to the snow with an abrupt squawk. So clumsy, so slow in his heavy furs. He rose to his knees, shouting at the hounds and his horse and the sky, wiping blood from under his nose as his companions laughed. _

_Humans. _

_They smelled like shit and woodfires, old meat covered in rank spices, and the last breaths of the creatures whose furs they wore. Filthy humans, missing teeth, missing eyes or fingers. They thought the hunt belonged to them by right. They had forgotten it was a game: the eater, and the eaten. _

_The boar had not fed in days. The storms of winter had kept its hunger banked low, embers instead of flame, but seeing the blood on the snow, feeling the spear in its side, the boar turned its face to the man struggling up out of the snow._

_It roared. _

_And its hunger _woke_. _

_A god was born from ice and mud, hunger and pain. And its eyes first fell on those who thought themselves safe, whose bowels turned to water when the roar broke against them, and filled them to brimming. _

_Humans. _

_They rode until the horses fell, and then they ran in their stinking furs, throats gone raw with screaming. The Boar thinks they might be running still, if it had not caught them all, men and horses and hounds, and used them up. _

_Well. The horses and hounds it used, and is still using now, its dream-and-mud-bred servants. _

_And the humans? _

_In the dead of winter, any mouthful is a meal._

* * *

_You never planned that she would die first, did you? _

The question is so rhetorical it can only be an insult, and that is precisely how the Boar means it.

Of course Donatello never planned for that possibility. He is the one with plans inside of plans, one clever trick nestled within another. Even in the darkest, the most hopeless of moments, there has always been a half-formed idea ready to be brought to the forge and fired into steel. Whatever the battle, Donatello believed he would always be able to get his family out alive.

Always.

Donatello has no one to blame for the ruin of his hopes but himself. He said he did not believe, and the Boar cannot accept such defiance. And so it came, with a message written in the frail lines of this human's body.

In the _illusion_ of the human's body. The Boar savors terror, like blood upon the snow, and while the human's soundless, creeping death was sweet to watch — sweeter still to watch Donatello's grief rise and bloom — it has larger, colder plans for her: a true death to make ghosts flee their stone beds.

Even so, it gives the Boar nothing short of _joy_ to watch him cradle the empty body in his arms, his face slack with shock as he tries to wake her. And watching the dawning realization in his eyes is_pleasure, _sweet and warm, spreading like the roots of a weed — pleasure the Boar has not felt in ever so many years.

This pleasure is tempered by the knowledge that Donatello was marked by the Other long before the Boar knew he lived. If only, if only the Boar had _known_ such a creature existed! What happy confluence raised Donatello from a mute beast, what alchemy transmuted bits of flesh and bone into this chimaera? More than that noxious fluid is at work here. Oh, the Boar is displeased, the Boar is _furious_, that Donatello is not his. It has contented itself with unworthy servants for too long, their flesh not fit for eating when they have outlived what little use it can find for them.

Human servants are the easiest to find, to bend and warp as the Boar sees fit, but they can only bear its power for so long. In the end, they are no different than that last hunt, small stinking creatures, weaker than dragonflies in winter.

Karai had potential, for all that she is human, torn between the ash-blackened hearts of her fathers. The Boar offered her satisfaction, the contentment of the sharpest blade, the truest arrow. All it asked was her heart. What use did the lost little girl have for that?

And yet, she resists. And she will pay for that resistance, oh, yes, she will pay, and the Boar must swallow as its mouth waters. She will pay, this night she will _pay. _The Boar will take what it is owed.

It is a god. It deserves the faithful. It deserves _power_. Donatello, a monster to look at, has power coiled rich and salty in his muscles. A puzzlement to find such power and defiance here, in the murky, silty sewers beneath the city, but the Boar has found power in strange places before.

The Boar remembers, with the red-soaked vision that serves as its memory, a nun, dust on her feet and scars on her hands, who dared to defy it as openly as Donatello. She had been the Other's champion then, its hoof print as clear to the Boar as if she had wore it on her skin. And like Donatello, she had refused to _believe._ What an ugly woman she had been, harder to look at than the creature sobbing his dry grief at the Boar's feet. But those scarred hands had held faith, enough to turn the Boar's stomach to water, and she had driven the Boar and its servants from her village with nothing more than a few shouted words of Latin and that damned _faith._

It did not matter that her faith had nothing to do with the Boar; what mattered was the faith itself, the act of fording a river and trusting that one would not be alone steering against the current.

The Boar chose to retreat and wait, counting out the thin, onion-skin years of the nun's life until she lay in her cot, struggling for breath. Then it broke her, with visions of the blood-fed fires.

She died, blind and screaming. Then the Boar fed upon her people in a meal that lasted weeks, and left her bitter bones to fall to dust in the center of her empty village.

It hungers too much to wait until Donatello dies. The city teems with life, each tiny fear and lust a morsel meant for the Boar's tongue, and so it must break him now before it makes a meal of the lives walking the streets above.

Such a pity, to break this marvelous creature. With that mind, and the discipline the rat-father instilled in him, Donatello is a jewel, lacking only the proper setting.

Perhaps the Boar may sway him.

Perhaps Donatello will be more receptive to _satisfaction. _

What an odd concept, satisfaction. In all its long centuries spent cycling through sleep and starvation, the Boar has never known satisfaction. It is sated for a time after feeding, and only then can it rest. When it wakes, it hungers. There is no end. There is no final cure for its condition, and even if there were, the Boar would not accept it. What power it has, it has raised from its hunger. Without hunger, the Boar is — nothing. Simply a white pig with gleaming tusks and red, runny eyes.

Hunger is what makes it a god.

So the Boar does not understand satisfaction, does not _wish_ to understand it, though it understands that the lure of satisfaction has its attractions for those lesser creatures. Never once has the offer been refused — not in the end. Not after the Boar showed them all that they could see. They all fall as prey, and the game is the Boar's to win, over and over.

The Other has not been seen in an age. It can still lay its mark upon its chosen champion, but it is weak, and cannot help them. Donatello is alone, chosen unwillingly for a task he cannot possibly accomplish. If the Boar felt pity, it would feel it now, to watch the slow truth crawl into Donatello's head. Whatever comes next, he will never forget what the human looks like when her life has been snuffed out, when all that is _her_ is washed away and her body is as blameless as dry leaves.

Donatello will never recover, will possibly never feel joy again — but he will want satisfaction, and the Boar can offer him that much.

"Do you hear the wind blow, Donatello?"

Yes. _Yes_. Of course he does. The wind has not stopped, not for a second. It will never end. Until this world shudders through its last breath, Donatello will hear the wind, and see her face.

The Boar crouches down in front of him in a whisper of silk. It lays a gentle hand on his wrist, stroking along the line of muscle. He is so _strong_, this one; the Boar can taste it in the ruined stutter of his pulse. When Donatello tries to pull away, a thick, grinding moan pouring out of him, the Boar squeezes his wrist. "Do you?"

"Yes," he whispers, not taking his eyes off the human's face. "I hear it." He pulls his hand away, and the Boar lets him. It even smiles at him, but Donatello does not see. He just stares at the human, and the Boar finally spares her a glance.

It is unimpressed. There have been prizes among humanity, near-worthy adversaries whose wills made the mountains look like piles of dust, but this human is not one of them. All that is special in her was _made_, not _born_.

The Boar wishes it had killed her in truth, rather than in image alone, for it can smell her soul, and she is not even worth the effort it would take to break her in its teeth. Oh, but the Boar knows that the light and spice that once flavored humanity's souls are fading. No more will it feast as it did in its youth.

At least, it muses, hooking a finger under Donatello's chin and forcing him to meet its eyes, there is is quantity to make up for quality. And it still has Karai's punishment to enjoy, once its work here is done. The offer must be made.

"Have you ever wondered, my dear, my brave Donatello," it says, "what you would have become, had she not taken up so much of you?"

"So much —" Donatello draws the body closer, as if he can somehow force meaning back into cold flesh when all hope is gone. "No," he hisses, shrinking away from the Boar, mouth curling. "You — you killed her. Killed her. Why? _Why?"_

The last word is a cry, the echoes throwing themselves against the walls like trapped birds. His tearless grief is a living thing of teeth and fury, rising to scourge the Boar's glamours — and the body in his arms flickers, sliding out of existence for an instant before the Boar can replenish the spell.

_He broke the glamour_, the Boar thinks, and for the first time in memory, it feels astonishment. The sensation fades in a hot rush of fury. How dare he resist?

"Oh god —" Donatello shakes his head, staring unblinking at the body in his arms. Then, with slow, gentle care, as if even this glamour were precious, he stands, and lets the body slide from his arms. The loss pains him; were he any weaker, he would not be able to let the glamour go. She has so much _weight_ in that head of his, a whetstone tied to his back.

As soon as it touches the floor, the glamour scatters like fireflies. The spell needed Donatello's belief to sustain it as much as the warhounds need Karai's breath to go about their work.

Shock keeps Donatello from reacting for a few fragile seconds. The Boar knows it should use this time to counterattack and cut Donatello off from his defenses — but it moves too late.

"April…is…" Donatello's hands clench into fists, heavy as stone, heavy as faith. Oh, this is terrible, this is _calamity_. He believes, but not in the Boar. He believes in what he _loves._

Before Donatello can inhale to howl, or do more than stare at the fading light, the Boar summons a new spell — not a glamour, not this time. For this, it needs a possible truth, and a little wind.

Then the offer can be made.

It feels the moment Donatello hears the wind rise. For all that his flesh is bitter, as he slips under, his terror is sweet, sweet as nectar on the tip of the Boar's tongue.

* * *

_There's more color than blood splashed across the courtyard this time: blue and orange and red, flashes of green, moving too quickly to truly see. _

_And fire, fire against the stone. True fire, and then the blaze of a woman's hair where it tumbles out of her black hood as she runs screaming across the battlefield, drawing a __wakizashi__ from a sheath at her side. _

_Last night, Donnie saw her twisted in a pool of her own blood, and again his chest aches when he sees her face. She's just as much a stranger as before, old before her time and ugly with rage, but something — something —_

_She's screaming a name, her face hard as weathered stone, eyes bloodshot and spitting tears. _

_"Karai, I'm here! You want to finish the set? Come and get me!" _

No, _Donnie tries to scream, and throws out both arms to try and catch the woman as she sprints past. He misses, and she keeps running, screaming Karai's name without end. _

_And Karai rises beside a slumped and broken body, blue scraps fluttering from her fist. _

_She is as grey as the stone beneath her feet, her hair cropped to a thin shadow on her scalp. She faces the woman, the combatants between them making way as Karai draws her own wakizashi and beckons the woman on. _

_The fight is over in two moves: the woman doesn't get a single blow in, too blinded by rage, before Karai's blade slashes through the air and the woman's vest opens, pale freckled skin bared to the light. Then Karai's blade moves again, and the woman's skin is lost to red ruin. _

_Donnie wants to cry out, but his mouth is sealed, and all he can do is watch as the red-haired woman falls to her knees, her wakizashi tumbling from loose fingers as she tries to staunch the flow of blood. Karai kicks her in the gut, and the woman slams to the ground, writhing as Karai crouches over her. _

_"No!" _

_Raph's voice, saying what Donnie can't. His brother bursts out through a clutch of Foot ninja as they grapple with a group of unarmored fighters, roaring, faded mask tails fluttering as he moves. He looks so old, his shell cracked and leaking under a battered jacket, but Donnie's never seen Raph run so fast, or his brother's face so desperate. _

_The woman turns her head, blood already leaking from her mouth, and stretches out her hand. Her face is softened by terror, all the hard lines gone. She was pretty once, before grief ruined her, but now she only looks young and lost. _

Help is so very far away_, whispers the song of the wind._

_The woman mouths Raph's name, straining against Karai's weight on her chest, but Raph stumbles over a loose stone and goes down, still roaring. He doesn't get up again, but squirms on his stomach, reaching for the woman with a beaten, bloody hand. _

_Karai's blade catches the light as she raises it over her head, and this time, Donnie does scream, unheard, as she stabs the woman through the heart, over and over, until the wakizashi breaks in half._

_Then Karai turns to Raph, and smiles. _

* * *

None have resisted past the second seeing. The Boar confronts them with the worst of their possible truths, and they crumble. Some go mad. Some never wake from the un-dreams. And some decide to serve, so the nightmares can be averted.

The Boar lets Donatello rise slowly from the courtyard. In his dull and unfocused gaze, it sees the brother fall, and the woman die by Karai's hand, teeth gritted as the blade travels through her to meet the stone under her back. It tastes her horror, her resignation, it tastes the red brother's desperation, and the futility of it all is spice upon spice.

What a hearty dish this family makes! And what the Boar cannot eat, it can still enjoy, Donatello's grief compounding as he sees how hopeless his situation is.

_Savor later,_ it instructs itself. _Make the offer. _

"I know you think me cruel, my brave boy," says the Boar, in its most soothing voice. It lays its hand on Donatello's wrist again, stroking his skin, losing itself in the sensations. Oh, he is not merely powerful, this one, he is _singular_, his only flaw the human taint riding his bones. That will be easy enough to remove.

"Cruel," says Donatello, his voice breaking. He clenches his hands, over and over, not blinking at all.

"I am not," the Boar says. It lets its voice slide into a wheedle, and it even smiles at Donatello with its wretched human mask, though he does not look up to see it. "Consider this a lesson, a message, a test, however it pleases you, dear boy. But do not think me cruel."

Donatello looks up. He is weary. He is haunted, full of ghosts with voices like fire.

He is ready for the offer.

"I am the kinder choice," the Boar purrs, resting its thumb against Donatello's pulse. It should keep its distance, this the Boar knows, but the promise in Donatello's veins cannot be resisted. And why deny itself any pleasure? It is a god. It has no need for patience.

"What you saw would have come to pass but for me and my influence. Your brothers would die. Your master would die. Everything you hold in that warm heart of yours would wither and die, and you would see it all, but for me."

"You…" Donatello shudders, and the Boar pushes, breaking through the last of his mind's defenses to present him with one final image: the brothers, scarred, doomed, full of cold age, clothing themselves in battle-worn scraps.

This, the Boar knows, is what will break him. Barely a flicker of power, and the brothers' faces crumple, eyes flat and useless, and are worn away like stone.

Donatello sags, the weight of the vision being poured into him too heavy to bear. The Boar does not bother with conjuring images of death, oh, no, not this time. Not this time, all it needs is their voices.

_Donnie, Donnie, help —_

_We need you —_

_Donnie, I'm —_

_Now, _thinks the Boar, full of joy, and hungry, ever so _hungry: _joy for Donatello's surrender, hunger for the meal to come. It leans toward Donatello, its mouth at his ear. The offer is simple: _come with me, and they will live. One life for three, and all I ask is your heart. _

Donatello jerks away with his teeth bared. The Boar can only wonder at him as the vision-thread snaps in half, and his mind closes itself against the Boar's power. It could worry and gnaw a new entrance, but before it can begin, it meets Donatello's eyes.

His _white_ eyes, narrowed in fury, and for a second, for an age, there is no room in the Boar for anything but unease. And then — such effrontery! Such gall, bitter as wormwood — Donatello turns his back on the Boar, a stone door between its mind and his.

The Boar could kill him, and it wants to, oh, it would so _love_ to see him split open, red from neck to navel, but it controls itself. So Donatello withstood the second seeing; what of it? He is the first to do so, but he will still snap like a fistfuls of twigs when the Boar comes again.

And oh, it shall come, with horrors fresh and bloody, with the offer thick in its mouth, and it will open him if he dares such resistance again. The offer shall be made; it will have him, or he shall bleed.

It is a god. He is still nothing but a beast. There is no question in its mind that the offer will be taken. The offer is always taken, in the end.

And yet, what the Boar hears in the roar of Donatello's pulse as it fades away sends another thread of unease through its substance.

Donatello believes — not in the Boar, but that he will kill it.

* * *

_In the darkness, in the absence of air, the Black Bull stirs in its sleep. It is a young god, and it sleeps so soundly that it barely hears the call echo across the empty spaces between the world and its resting place. A song of grief, a song of rage, song without end, blessed be the voice that sings it. _

_The Bull wakes to its champion's voice. _

_The White Boar — cursed be its hooves, cursed be its tusks, may its flesh rot upon its bones, may it wander without rest or kindness until the end of all days — has begun the game anew, and stands ready to greet the Bull with fresh horrors. It has gathered unto itself a cohort of monsters, living and dead, and waits the Bull's reply. _

_The Bull wishes for sleep. For peace. Youth is no cure for exhaustion, not even for the Bull, so it rises from its bower and shakes its heavy head. _

_A city, this time, is the prize. The Bull does not sigh, but it lets its weary head hang low, and allows its eyes to close. So many tiny lives, fragile as light through glass, and all of them must be saved. _

_The Bull already knows it will not be able to save them all. It has not yet recovered from the last game, an untold age before. It _lost_ that game; two cities were ground to rubble, and the Boar roared as it feasted. Roared, and roared, its triumph making a mockery of laughter. _

_So many lives. _

_The Bull is tired. It can barely lift its head once more. The champion has been chosen; what else is there for the Bull to do? It cannot enter the world to guide the champion, it is yet too weak. It can give no help, no aid, no —_

_The Bull does not smile, but its head, crowned by horns older than words, grows light. Ah, but there is one thing it can do, that the Boar cannot. _

_It can _adapt_. _

_Two, after all, is greater than one, and in a game with no rules, who is to stop the Bull from choosing again? _

_It calls across the divide, a low song, a song of summons, and feels the tender brush of a mortal mind against its own. _

_Wake, calls the Bull, wake, wake. I name you both Champion. _

_Together you will be mighty._

_Be not blind. Be not mute._

_Be not afraid. _

_Be not alone. _

* * *

April opens her eyes. She has to squint to focus in the dark room, but she can see Donnie slip inside his room and shut the door. He leans against it, eyes too wide, and simply stares at her. Stares, and stares, like he's afraid she'll disappear if he blinks.

"Donnie?" She sits up, still half-asleep, and reaches out to him like a little girl. "Is everything okay?" A joke about Jenny dies on the back of her tongue as a wave of — grief? Longing? Disbelief? Something between all three, as murky as the Hudson after a hard rain — reaches her.

Donnie dredges up a smile. A horrible, blank smile, a smile that's as much a lie as what he says next.

"Everything's fine," he says. "Fine."

She tosses the blanket away and starts to swing out of bed, her arms already full of him, ready to take the weight of whatever's in his head.

_Oh, god_, she thinks, as that murky feeling touches her mind again, edged with keen, brutal ice._The Boar —_

"Donnie, what happened? Let me —"

Before she stands up, he shakes his head, and shoves himself back against the door as if it's the only thing holding him up. "No, I'm sorry — I just —" His voice fails, and he shakes his head again. "Just…wait, please?"

Donnie never asks for much. April nods, as much as it burns in her to not go to him, to not share this weight. They're partners, that's what they do — but she stays where she is, fists clenched at her side.

He stares at her for a long time, and April lets him.


	3. Interlude: Blood Mortar

**A/N:** This takes place a few hours after the end of Walking Wounded, and overlaps slightly with the events in Interlude: Westron Wynde.

Miyamoto Usagi, Genn, Tomoe Ame, and Chizu are all characters in Stan Sakai's fantastic _Usagi Yojimbo_ comics.

Mikey's best line and also the Tiger Claw vs. Usagi headcanon belong to hotmilkytea 3

* * *

When Raph wakes, it's to a stiff neck and a damp, warm spot on his shoulder, where Casey's mouth is almost, but not quite, pressed against his skin. He stretches slowly, careful not to wake Casey, and cracks his neck twice before looking around. As his eyes adjust to the dark, the common room shifts silently, the familiar shapes of the TV and couches changing, flowing, growing —

Raph squints, caught in the middle of a stretch with his arms over his head. There's something at the far edge of his vision, down the hall, near the door of the lab. In the dim light spilling out of the kitchen like an afterthought, Raph can just make out the humped, heavy shape. It shifts — or does it? It looks like it's breathing, though Raph is too far away to be sure. It could be anything.

_It's just trash_, he tells himself, still half-asleep. _A pile of junk Donnie left laying around. Stuff even he couldn't fix. It's just —_

It moves, rising up on four legs, steam curling off its sides, and turns its head toward him. A dull red eye travels the outline of the room, slowly, slowly, not missing a single corner, and Raph knows it'll see him and Casey soon enough. The eye will fall on him.

He's not scared. What he is, what he feels, he doesn't have a word for. His brothers would be able to name this surge within him, but he can't. Raph can barely handle the words _I'm sorry_; there's no way he'd be able to explain the hollowing in his chest, or the ringing in his ears, like the echo of hoofbeats.

The eye reaches him, and lingers.

Raph curls closer to Casey, one hand inching toward Casey's. An anchor. Raph needs an anchor, or a direction to point his internal compass in. He can't orient himself against that feeling rising in him, the fascinated, repulsed draw, the anticipation of what will happen next.

_Don't let it see Casey_, warns a voice that sounds like his own, and Raph listens, putting himself in between Casey and the eye as much as he can. Casey grumbles in his sleep and buries his head in one of the cushions, then goes still and quiet again.

The eye lingers for a few seconds, long enough for Raph to know notice has been taken, and then it disappears. Not a blink, just _gone_, without a noise or sign to prove it had been there to begin with. The shape vanishes as well, soundlessly, so abruptly it hurts Raph's eyes.

He still isn't scared, but he feels — he feels like he's been found wanting. He hadn't measured up. He —

Raph yawns. He's so tired his vision pulses and wavers, turning shadows into strange, twisted shapes. _Mind's playing tricks on me, _he thinks, yawning again, the unnameable feeling fading out of him as he slips toward sleep again.

* * *

Mikey wakes Raph up for good a few hours later, when he comes tumbling back into the lair with an enormous Ikea bag slung over each shoulder.

"Dude," Raph snaps, still a little groggy. "Can you be _any_ louder?"

"Probably!" Mikey stage-whispers, but he sets the bags down quietly enough. He nods at Casey. "How's he doin'?"

Raph turns his head to look over his shoulder at Casey. He holds down a snort when he sees the huge drool mark he left on Casey's t-shirt, and can't see anything to immediately worry about. Casey's breathing is smooth and even, his mouth slack, his color good. When he presses the back of his hand to Casey's forehead, Casey groans and bats his hand away, but not before Raph can feel the healthy warmth radiating off Casey's skin.

"He's good," Raph tells Mikey, not taking his eyes off Casey. He's allowed to stare a little after the night they all had, and Mikey can go screw himself if he thinks it's lame or cute. At least he's not_kissing_ Casey in front of Mikey.

"Think he'll want some brekky-brek?" Mikey toes one of the bags. It crinkles invitingly, and sends a subtle hint of yeast and sugar toward Raph. He breathes in deep — cinnamon rolls, maybe, and still warm too — and glances again at Casey. If there really are fresh cinnamon rolls in the bag, Casey will kill him for not waking him up, but Casey will kill Raph _twice_ for waking him up when he's feeling shitty.

"Nah," says Raph. "Let him sleep." His hand twitches toward Casey, to smooth his hair, to rub his back. Raph wants to take care of Casey, but he doesn't want to mess up. He's not good at taking care of people. Casey's tougher than most, and more patient, but that's all the more reason for Raph to be careful.

He settles for pulling the blanket higher, almost to Casey's chin. The lair gets cold in the morning, no matter how many space heaters they have running, and Casey makes a sleepy, grateful noise that sounds almost like Raph's name.

"No reason for us not to eat." Mikey, probably on purpose, is staring at whatever's inside the bags, and avoiding Raph's gaze. "You should see the stuff I brought back, we're good for like, a week."

"Went to see Team AARP?" Raph asks as he stands up and walks toward Mikey. As he gets closer, he thinks he can smell pasta sauce, and his tongue clenches.

Mikey nods and picks up the bags, holding one out to Raph. "Yep. Couldn't sleep. Needed to get out for a little while, you know? So I figured I'd go check on Sandra and company."

Raph thinks it's weird with a side of bizarre that Mikey has a whole army of grannies that he hangs out with, but he can't argue with the way the grannies collectively decided to feed Mikey's entire family. Especially not when he _knows_ he's smelling fresh cinnamon rolls.

"Did they make this all for you, or do they just have this much food laying around?" Raph asks as they reach the kitchen. "Jeez, this thing weighs a ton."

Mikey is already elbows-deep in the bag. "Hey, dude, don't complain, they don't _have_ to cook for us." He squeals, delighted, as he pulls out a long, flat Tupperware container, marked by a note that says _FOR MY MIKEY_. "Oh, Rosa, my girl, _thank you_." He unsnaps the lid and breathes in, groaning with delight.

Raph doesn't bother asking what's in the Tupperware. Only three things can get Mikey to react like that: Antonio's pizza, Murakami's pizza gyoza, or Rosa's lasagna. He pulls the bag away from Mikey, hoping that Rosa sent a second batch, because Mikey's not going to let anyone else touch the one in his arms.

Sure enough, there's a second Tupperware container nestled at the bottom of the bag, under the boxes of tea for Splinter and the bags of cold-press coffee for Donnie, with a Post-It on top that says _FOR NOT MIKEY_.

Yeah, it's weird that Mikey hangs out with grannies, but if anyone looks at them wrong, they'll have Raph to deal with too.

The next few minutes are taken up with sorting the food, dividing it into what gets stored and what gets eaten. Raph and Mikey work in silence except to ask murmured questions, and that's fine with Raph. He finds he's craving the quiet, the simple ritual of creating meals, and giving thanks. Ten years ago — hell, five years ago — he wouldn't have believed they'd be eating anything other than worms and algae, or making friends, or —

_Don't be all sappy,_ he warns himself, not soon enough to stop his smile. He ducks his head, and forces himself to frown at a container full of sausage gravy. _Just don't. _

"You seen Donnie or Leo?" he asks Mikey a few minutes later, a little guilty that he hadn't asked before. Leo was with Sensei, and Donnie's with April, which means they're probably fine, but — he should have asked sooner.

Mikey pauses with his hand on the fridge door, and Raph knows he's feeling just as guilty as Raph is. "Nope," he says. "Well, I checked Leo's room, and he was still out, so I just left him. Figured he'd need to sleep off…everything, you know?"

Raph knows. Raph fucking _knows. _"So no Donnie?"

Mikey scoffs, and rolls his eyes at Raph. "Dude, he's in his _room_. With _April_. I am _so_ not gonna interrupt."

Well, there's no arguing with that. Raph has absolutely no urge to go see what they've gotten up to, but someone should check on Donnie. And since he's the one who made such a big deal about Donnie not being alone, about them needing Donnie, it makes sense that he's the one to do it.

"I'll give them another hour," he says, feeling better now that the decision's made. "Then I'll bring them some breakfast or something."

"Aw, dude, that's sweet," says Mikey. "Breakfast in bed! Then they won't have to leave the _love nest_. Maybe you should do that for Casey! 'Cause you know, the bigger the sickness, the better the —" He does jazz hands, smirking and waggling his eyebrows.

"Shut up," snaps Raph, his cheeks heating. He throws a bag of dry noodles at Mikey's head. "You're a little shit."

"Better than being a big shit, brah," Mikey tosses back, catching the bag without looking. "So what're we gonna do about Leo?" he asks, going serious in the space of a heartbeat. "Like, as long as Donnie's got April, he's good, right? They'll kiss and make up or whatever, but Leo needs…" He gives up, shrugging, and gives Raph a pleading look.

Raph stares at his hands. He has no idea what Leo needs. Who the hell ever thought things would get so bad that Raph is the one trying to figure out what other people need? He can barely ask for what he needs himself. He just doesn't have the language. Give him something to kick, punch, stab, destroy, and he's fine. But feelings are so soft, and delicate, and he's neither. He can't take care of precious things. Look at Spike.

Look at _Slash_.

He closes his eyes.

With anything else, Raph would just say that Leo needed to talk to Sensei. They've always been on the same wavelength — how many times had he called Leo _a good little soldier_, or _Splinter Junior_? He'd meant to hurt with those words, and they always had, because of how much truth rested behind them. Leo could always turn to Sensei, except where Karai was concerned. They're both too clouded, too close, to see clearly, no matter how much is at stake and no matter how hard they try. Karai is always going to be the wedge that drives them apart.

Raph wishes he had killed her. He should have torn her apart and left her scattered over the city, a finger here, a knot of hair and teeth there. Or he should have done what heroes in the stories always did, and cut her into seven pieces and then buried her with her mouth full of sand. He wouldn't need words for that. He's Leo's threat, his brother's last resort. What stopped him from doing what Leo couldn't?

Leo hadn't asked him to, that's what. Leo wanted her alive — no, Raph realizes, his heart plummeting in his chest, Leo wants her dead, but he doesn't want her blood on Raph's hands.

It's a terrible gift, taking that responsibility. Donnie and Leo keep giving it, over and over, and Raph will never be able to thank them enough. He's started to try, with Donnie, and that's something, but he needs to do more, he needs to give Leo something. He needs to find a way to take some of the weight off his brother's shoulders, just for a little while, or he needs to find a way to strengthen Leo's armor against Karai. Sensei can't do that, he needs armor almost as badly as Leo does, and Donnie is too wrecked to do it himself. Mikey would do it, but everyone needs Mikey, not just Leo. And Raph — Raph's a weapon, not armor.

"We can't call Radical," he says. "She'd just laugh, and…" He trails off, trying not to let his hands tighten too much on the table. Fucking Radical.

"Yeah," says Mikey heavily. He scoops up a forkful of lasagna, but doesn't lift it to his mouth. "But like, who else is there? Leo needs — _dude._ I got it!"

Raph looks up, his thoughts a half-second behind Mikey's. It's not quite telepathy, not quite April's empathy, but he knows his brothers so well that he can read Mikey's answer in his gaze, and in how wide his smile is.

"Oh, _yeah_," he says, feeling his own mouth lift in a grin. "That's…that's…you feel like taking a trip, Mikey?"

It is nothing short of a perfect spring morning. Though the air is still edged with the chill clinging to the mountains, the sun is warm, the grass is lush and green, and the lake is still as polished glass.

Such a morning, Usagi decides, was meant for a leisurely breakfast away from duty and ritual, spent in the company of dear friends.

"More tea, Usagi? Genn?" Tomoe Ame casts a look across the table, waiting for their nods before pouring.

Usagi inhales the fragrant steam before sipping. It has been brewed too long, and is bitter on his tongue, but it's the warmth he craves, not the flavor. Tomoe Ame shares his opinion, raising an eyebrow at him as she lowers her cup, turning instead to the plate of tamagoyaki. Genn, for his part, neither seems to notice or care about the bitter taste. Usagi's friend applies himself with a will to the rice and miso, humming his approval as he eats.

It is a perfect spring morning, Usagi reflects, gazing around the pavilion. A polite murmur of subdued conversation floats toward him from the other tables, though no one voice is loud enough to be heard with clarity.

"Dude! Usagi! My man! There room for a turtle at this party?"

_Oh, no_, thinks Usagi. His stomach drops as the other patrons' heads turn, as one, to stare in the direction of the blithe, youthful voice. Michelangelo's voice.

It _was _a perfect spring morning.

Michelangelo crosses the room, tossing winks and smiles at all who dare to meet his eyes. The turtle does not seem to notice the chill, though he wears nothing but his wraps and leathers straps. It is very clear, from the shocked looks on the patrons' faces, that they have not failed to notice his state of undress.

Tomoe Ame tries to hide her smirk and fails, quite badly. Usagi schools his face into stillness as all eyes turn to him, and resolutely does not wince as Michelangelo drops gracelessly onto a cushion at Tomoe Ame's side.

"Long time no see," he says, reaching for the rice. "Man, I am _starving, _and — Tomoe Ame! How's it hanging?" He kisses her cheek, eliciting more than a few gasps from the tables around theirs. "How's little lord Pandaface? Still not-so-large and in charge?"

"Lord Noriyuki is well, Michelangelo," says Tomoe Ame, with a sharp hint of disapproval. She is a patient creature, Usagi knows, but she will brook no disrespect to her lord. "I see you are same as ever."

"You know me." Michelangelo tosses a ball of rice into his mouth and chews lustily, noisily. From long, long experience, Usagi knows what a performance this glib exterior is, but it does not lessen his embarrassment as Michelangelo leans back and crosses one leg over the other. "And Genn! Good to see you!"

"Michelangelo," says Genn, barely nodding as he rescues the rice from Michelangelo's clinging hands. "Well met."

Usagi closes his eyes. "My friend," he says, hoping with all his soul that Michelangelo has some purpose to be here beyond disruption and flirtation. "You are most welcome, as always, but I must ask — is there a reason for your visit?"

Michelangelo's face goes dark for an instant, but on a face so sunny, on a face meant for joy and laughter, an instant feels like an entire night's worth of darkness. "Yeah," he says heavily. "I got a reason. It's Leo, Usagi."

Leonardo.

He counts all the turtles as friends, as well as their human partners, but it is Leonardo for whom Usagi feels a true affinity. Beyond the distinction of _samurai _and _ninja _that separates them, they are both warriors. They are leaders. They are…_righteous. _And Leonardo, though shrouded in deceit as are all ninja, has a core of true honor.

Leonardo, most trusted of Usagi's friends, most cherished.

His _dearest_ friend.

"What has happened?" he asks, no longer feeling the wind, but a deeper chill, a foreboding in his chest of greater ills to come. "Michelangelo?"

The turtle swallows. "He's no bueno in the brainpan, Usagi," he replies. "Karai's back, and she's got some new friends."

That is all Usagi needs to hear. His mouth twists into a grim line as he sets his teacup aside. A far more bitter taste rests on his tongue. _Karai_. The serpent, the nettles and thorns, the venom in a bite, the most gleeful of evils that Usagi has faced. Leonardo — and his family — must be protected from this blight.

"I will come," says Usagi, though Michelangelo has not asked. Judging by the pathetically grateful smile Michelangelo bestows upon Usagi, that is precisely what he was going to ask, given the opportunity.

* * *

_This world, Usagi reflects, is misery given solid form. All around him, buildings rise from the earth with no thought for harmony or aesthetics; with every breath, he smells cold steel, rotting wood, damp stones. He smells _filth_, and suppresses a shudder as the wind blows a fresh burst of the stink toward him. _

The sooner my business is ended, the sooner I may return home_, he tells himself, and focuses on the fight ahead, and the daisho within his reach. A long battle may end this night, and Usagi cannot give into dreams of home, nor his exhaustion. His quarry is close; the monster he has chased across more dimensions than he can count is here, almost within reach. _

_It is almost over. Justice will be served. _

_He turns his head out of the wind, scanning over the tops of buildings, watching for movement through the forests of slender metal rods on the roofs. Such creatures in this world! He catches glimpses of them through windows as they yell, weep, laugh, and sleep. They all look so alike; how can they tell one from another? Such smooth-skinned creatures, most of them flabby and unused to labor. _

Focus!_ He tears his gaze from a woman cradling a baby to her chest, rocking it to sleep, and listens. The wind has changed, and he hears echoes, a dull, distant clash of steel. _

_A battle. _

_Usagi has already turned in the direction of the fight before the roar reaches him, and he leaps without thinking, teeth bared. His quarry! Finally, he may finish the work begun so long ago, when he cut off the monster's tail and sent him slinking in shame back to his hovel. _

I should have finished it then_, Usagi thinks, trying to outrace his regret. _I should have killed Tiger Claw, and rid all worlds of his evil. I was young and foolish then, and thought the battle over — how many innocents have suffered for my hesitation and pride?

_He comforts himself as he runs with the thought that Tiger Claw will no longer vent his malice upon anyone, innocent or otherwise. Fate has given him the chance to right his long-ago mistake, and he shall not hesitate now. _

_The sounds of battle grow as he races over the dark, rain-slick rooftops. Usagi is silent save for the steady, unhurried rhythm of his breath and the hiss as he draws his katana from its sheath, but the combatants would not hear him over their shouts and cries. _

They sound like children, _Usagi thinks, with a curl of his lip. _No true warriors would cry out so. It is well I am coming, for such inexperience will only lead to failure. _He admires the fighters, without reluctance, for though they are loud, they have held Tiger Claw at bay long enough to Usagi to reach them. _

_It brings him up short — it stops him mid-pace — when he reaches the edge of the last roof, and sees that it is indeed a group of children facing Tiger Claw, with weapons he recognizes, and no small degree of skill. _

_Children, yes, but they are like no children that Usagi has yet seen in this world. They are —_turtles_, moving with speed and grace, with proficiency that gives lie to their age. They move as one, a blinding whirl of green limbs and faint bursts of other colors, and Usagi cannot help but stare. _

_They are ninja, he realizes; though these children move in the open, there is no disguising the origins of their art. Deception, distraction, misdirection: these are the ninja's hallmarks, and he thinks of how delighted Chizu would be with such youthful devotion to her art. _

_Ninja. Were he not dedicated to destroying Tiger Claw, he would count these children as his enemies — and yet, he has found them fighting his quarry. That makes them, for a brief span, something akin to allies. _

_He poises to leap, but pauses when one of the children, broad and red-masked, comes too close to Tiger Claw, and earns a blow to the head for his trouble. The child cries out, fury fading to pain and dismay as he falls and lies motionless, and the other three children freeze. _

_"Raph's down!" calls the tallest child, his own voice made reedy by fear and exhaustion, and tries to reach his fallen brother. Tiger Claw laughs, a thick chuckle that stabs at Usagi's heart, and draws one of his strange weapons from its holster. _

_Tiger Claw sets the tall child in his sights. "You thought you could face me, and win? You have learned _nothing!"

_The child does not reply. He merely covers his brother's body with his own and closes his eyes. _

_Usagi leaps. He cannot — he will not allow this to happen. _

_There are two screams, in the instant before Usagi's feet touch the rooftop. The other children, blue- and orange-masked, wielding katana and nunchaku, jump from the shadows, distracting Tiger Claw long enough for the shot to go wide and miss the targets. _

_Tiger Claw roars again, bringing his weapon to bear on the child in blue, who faces him with teeth bared. "Foolish cub!" he cries, as the child runs at him, in silence, in desperation. _

_"Tiger Claw!" cries Usagi. All movement stops, and he allows himself one moment of pure, savage delight as a shudder runs through Tiger Claw. He slowly turns to face Usagi, too stunned to do more than sneer, and Usagi smiles. It will end, here, now. Tonight. _

_"I see you have stooped to attacking children, Tiger Claw," he says, lazily, disdainfully, a challenge and an insult. "I admit, I am not surprised. You were always without honor. But you shall hurt them no more! I am eager to finish what we began so long ago. Do you remember that day?" _

_ Oh, no, Tiger Claw has not forgotten him, not a whit. He chokes on his roar, all his attention on Usagi, and raises his weapon once more. _

_"The only finish, rabbit," he growls, "will be _yours_." _

_Usagi laughs. "We shall see." Without losing track of Tiger Claw's movements, he flicks a glance at the child in blue, who stares at him with an open mouth, eyes wide and startled. They are not as young as he thought at first, their shells and chests covered with scars. "Go!" he yells. "Take your injured and run! I will handle Tiger Claw!" _

_The child still stares at him, his mouth struggling to shape words, but the smallest one tugs at his arm, hissing at him to come away, to run, to help Raph. Reluctantly, the child lets himself be pulled away, and his mouth, smeared with blood, finally forms coherent words. _

Thank you_, the child says. _

_Usagi spares him a nod, but no more, for Tiger Claw has let the engine on his back roar to infernal life, and there is murder in his eyes. _

_It will end this night, for good. _

* * *

_Usagi staggers away from what is left of Tiger Claw, exhausted and empty, unable to tell exactly where the blood on his armor has come from, or to whom it belongs. He is fairly certain most of it is not his, but he feels light-headed enough to make him doubt the assessment. _

I must hide_, he thinks_, and rest. I must take care not to be seen, I must —

_"Hey." The voice at his side is soft, not a threat, but Usagi whirls to face it, raising his blade. If he must fight, so be it, though he is in no condition to do so. At least the hunt is over, the battle won. He will die righteous, if he must die at all. _

_The child faces him, eyes still wide in his blue mask. "I — we came back to see if we could help," he says. Behind him, the other three linger, bandaged and bruised, exhausted beyond telling. "Can you walk, or do you need help?" _

_Usagi nearly snaps that he needs no help from such as them, that they are ninja and therefore anathema to all he holds sacred. A soft voice reminds him that they fought Tiger Claw, and that this one thanked him for his help before running away. Is it too much to hope that some honor has touched them, despite their art? _

_"I believe…" Usagi licks his lips and cringes at the taste of blood upon them. His, or Tiger Claw's? He cannot tell, he cannot tell. "I believe I should sit down," he finishes, and collapses to his knees. _

_The child — blue-eyed to match his mask — kneels at his side, holding out a bottle of water. He holds it steady as Usagi drinks, lowering the bottle when Usagi begins to gasp and choke. He nods at the tallest turtle, who crouches beside Usagi and probes a cut on his arm with gentle fingers. _

_"You need stitches," he says, frowning. "I can get this bandaged, and it'll hold for a while, but it won't last." _

_"Thank you, but I am fine," Usagi says, and tries to rise to his feet. He is weary, so very weary, and longs for rest with all that is in him. "You do not need to trouble yourselves." He does not give voice to the steadily growing unease he feels, surrounded on all sides by ninja. _

_"I think we do," says the first child, who Usagi is certain is the leader, judging by how the others orient themselves around him, taking their cues from his subtle movements and hand gestures. "You saved our shells back there. We were already in bad shape after dealing with the Kraang, and then Tiger Claw —" He sighs, and in his face, Usagi sees an echo of his own weariness, and how care has already begun to age him. They cannot be more than ten years younger than his own twenty-eight, but they hold themselves like warriors of long standing. _

_He finds he admires them, in spite of himself. _

_"It wouldn't be right if we just left you," says the leader, with an air of finality. "You saved us. Let us help you. I promise, you're safe." He meets Usagi's eyes and holds his gaze. There is no subterfuge, no guile. "Besides, anyone who wants to take out Tiger Claw is a friend, right?" This last is directed to the others, who nod, offering Usagi variations on the same, exhausted smile. _

_Usagi hopes his trust will not be misplaced. He cannot sense dishonesty in them, but he has been wrong before. He trusts Chizu, and it is for her sake, and for the gift of friendship and honesty she has given him, that he holds out his hand to the leader. _

_"Miyamoto Usagi," he says, pleased with the solid, unflinching pressure of the leader's hand in his. _

_"Hamato Leonardo," comes the reply. "Come on, we'll get you out of sight, get you patched up. Then maybe you can tell us how you and Tiger Claw met." _

_Usagi sighs as he eases to his feet. "It is a long story," he says, wincing, and letting Leonardo take some of his weight. _

_"That's the best kind," Leonardo answers, with a bright smile._

* * *

Raph knocks on Leo's door. He doesn't get a response at first, so he waits before knocking again, glancing down the hall at Donnie's room. The door is still firmly shut, but he can hear soft voices from inside, and he decides to give them a little more time before hauling them out, and reminding the two geniuses that they need to eat sometimes. As long as they're talking, they're fixing themselves.

He presses his ear to Leo's door and knocks again. "Hey. Leo. Time to wake up."

"Raph?" He hears Leo throw off his covers and stumble toward him. The door cracks open, and Leo's reddened, bleary gaze meets him. "What is it? Is everyone okay? Are we —" He rubs his eyes, sighing, and Raph's hand tightens on the doorframe. Leo is _wrecked_, more than Raph can remember seeing him.

No, not true — Raph remembers what Leo looked like when he woke up in his own bed after they rescued him from Shredder's dungeon, and he looked worse than this. Young and dazed and so thankful for being safe, for being home.

"We're good, Leo," he says. "Mikey went to see the grannies, and he brought back a shit ton of food. Figured I should wake you up before Mikey eats it all."

"Oh." Leo blinks at him, and almost smiles a half-beat later. "Yeah, that'd be nice." His eyes move toward the kitchen. "Any of those biscuits and gravy?" he asks, wistfully, as he steps out of his room.

"I think so." Raph falls into step at Leo's side, ready to catch him if he stumbles. Leo is slow, no grace or rhythm in his movements, but his shoulders straighten as they get closer to the kitchen. "But you'll want to eat them later. We're going vegetarian for breakfast today. Sandra sent cinnamon rolls, though. Think those'll make up for it."

"Maybe," says Leo. He pauses, looking at Raph with a frown. "Wait. Vegetarian? Why?"

"Dude!" Mikey interrupts, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a plate of cinnamon rolls in one hand. "Get your shell moving, or I'm gonna eat all of these!"

Leo opens his mouth, shuts it, and turns back to the kitchen without another word. Raph follows a step behind, his stomach rolling over. This has to work, it has to help.

Mikey steps out of the way to let them through, but Raph lingers in the doorway, watching as Leo freezes mid-step, his eyes fixed on Usagi. He can never tell when tension breaks unless it's with a blow or with a scream, but today, in this moment, Raph feels the air shift, something sour leaching away, and what feels like light breaking through the stones around them.

He and Mikey — they did the right thing, and Raph knows this like he knows his sai or his own hands.

"Oh my God," says Leo, his voice breaking, one hand raised in a fist. "Usagi."

"Leonardo." Usagi steps forward, smiling a little sadly, and captures Leo's fist in both of his hands. "My friend," he says.

Leo doesn't sob, or make any noise at all. Instead, his shoulders slump and he throws his arms around Usagi, in a hug too tight to be comfortable, but Usagi doesn't complain. He only embraces Leo back, taking all of Leo's weight.

Raph exhales, feeling like he's been holding his breath for hours. Next to him, Mikey relaxes, and sets the plate of cinnamon rolls aside. He bumps shoulders with Raph, shared relief jumping between them at the contact, and Raph smiles at him. Thank God for Mikey, and his strokes of genius.

It's a very good thing that Mikey set aside the plate, Raph thinks a moments later, because Leo releases Usagi from the hug only to spin around and pull Raph and Mikey into an even tighter one, his breath hot on their shoulders. Raph can hear him whispering, a thanks that Raph feels more than hears, in the gradual loosening of Leo's muscles.

They're all his armor, just like he's theirs. And Raph, to his genuine, aching surprise, begins to understand that he can take care, no matter how precious a thing he's been trusted with. Whatever comes, he can do more than destroy. He can build, he can forgive. He can heal.


	4. Interlude: Simple Gifts

**A/N:** This fic takes place a few hours after the end of Walking Wounded, and immediately follows the events in Interlude: Westron Wynde.

* * *

Until she turned twelve, April thought _special_ was something she needed to be. Teachers called her _special_, and made it sound like a prize, something to reach for with both hands. Her parents told her she was special, that she could be or do anything she wanted.

And then her mother died, and April found out what _special_ really meant. It meant you were marked. It meant you were _different_, because when you came home from school and found your mother facedown in the middle of the kitchen, her coffee cold in its mug on the counter, no one ever really looked at you again. _Special_ meant people treated you delicately, but not like something precious. They treated you like a bomb, seconds from exploding, and no one wanted to get caught in the shrapnel when you finally blew.

_Special_ meant loneliness. _Special_ meant sitting across from counselors who just wanted you to talk, when what you really wanted to do was cry until you fell asleep. _Special _meant waking up every morning, and having to remind yourself not to call out for Mom because then Dad's face would crumple and he wouldn't eat for the rest of the day.

_Special_ meant being angry. Moms aren't supposed to die, and they aren't supposed to do it where their daughters can find them, and they aren't supposed to do it without saying goodbye. April had so much left to ask her mother, so many stupid little things, like _why do you wear blue all the time_ and _why do you laugh when Dad brings home asparagus for dinner_.

She still hadn't asked _why do you think I'm special, Mom? _Instead, she had to figure it out for herself, when her father knelt down in front of her, brushed the hair out of her eyes, and said "Sweetheart, we have take care of each other now" in a careful, careful voice.

_Special_ meant wanting to scream, and knowing it would never help.

April never wanted to be special. She wanted to be happy. Her father did what he could, and April treasures him for every single time he indulged her, even as he battled his own grief. Did April want to go out for dinner every night for two weeks, because being in the kitchen for more than five minutes gave her nightmares? Then they would go out for dinner. Did April want to stay up and watch Doris Day movies until she fell asleep on the couch, even though it was a school night? Then her father would cover her with blankets and sit up with her, then carry her to bed.

Her father didn't have anyone else left to love after her mother died, just April, and he loved her with everything he had. That made April special too, the only way she could bear the word now, because all she had left was her father. But no matter how much love he gave her, her father couldn't stop the tiny, thirsty, furious seed in April's heart from drinking in all her grief, and sending out its bright roots to search for more. And when it bloomed, her grief gave way to anger, and she stayed angry, every day since.

Had that seed been there from the beginning, just waiting to blossom? April doesn't know. Maybe it was some other Kraang gift, one more thing to make her special. April O'Neil, the motherless child, the angry girl, the weapon. She doesn't want to be any of those things. She doesn't want to be special. And yet, she is motherless, she is angry, and she is a weapon. She is, if the Kraang can be believed, one of the most important people in the world.

April knows what she is. She's dangerous.

Sometimes, when she's stayed up too many nights in a row and hasn't been eating, her thoughts go charred-black at the edges, and she sits on the edge of her roof and wonders why she's still alive. The turtles have done the cost-analysis — Donnie has, at least — and there's no way she's worth the risk. If the Kraang come back, if they catch her again — well, she certainly doesn't expect them to be merciful. They made it clear when she was sixteen that her pain amused them, and that they were prepared to hold a grudge for a very, very long time. So why, she sometimes wonders, has neither side taken that final step? The turtles love her, but April would hardly blame them if they chose the world over her, and wouldn't it be easier for the Kraang to just erase her and start from scratch with someone more pliable?

But no. April is _special_.

April is also very tired.

When her thoughts go dark like this, someone always appears to pull her out of the undertow. Usually Donnie, sometimes Casey, like they've been called to her by some low-level telepathy. Casey will tease her out of it, get her spitting mad, then laugh and hug her too tightly, and Donnie will — Donnie will sit quietly with her, not quite touching, and tell her about stars forming in distant galaxies.

On one of those nights, she told Donnie she was afraid all the time, and he only smiled and touched her hand.

_You don't have to be afraid, _he told her. _You're star stuff. _

She had laughed, and punched him in the arm, because _really, Donnie? Carl Sagan?_ He just kept smiling, until her laughter died away, and instead of being afraid, she thought of atoms bonding after thousands of years apart, and new light spreading through cold darkness.

That was the first night in almost half her life April believed that being _special_ wasn't so horrible. And maybe that was the first night her stomach dropped when she met Donnie's gaze, but then Casey swung up the fire escape and whatever fragile realization she had just begun to touch scattered.

April understands what _special_ means now. It means that there are people who will always believe she is worth saving. The very first person to believe that, the one who looked at her and saw not grief or fury but something he wanted to cherish, is standing within reach, shaking, looking like his heart has been cracked through its center.

He saved her. Over and over, too many times to count. April could try for the rest of her life to deserve Donnie, and she would never come close. He's too kind and patient. He's forgiven her for every selfish, vicious outburst, and he will keep forgiving her, because that's Donnie.

_If he's a monster, _April thinks, watching Donnie cling to his door, staring at her with wild eyes, _then what am I?_

The answer's easy: she's a monster too, just as the Kraang made her.

* * *

Donnie doesn't stop shaking. He barely moves at all, and no one who hasn't spent the last ten years or longer memorizing how his body moves would be able to see it, but April can see every tiny tremor as it moves through his arms and legs. He's trying to hide them from her, locking his knees and elbows and gritting his jaw, but April knows. And shouldn't she know his body by now, maybe even better than her own? His is the body that keeps saving hers. A shield, a spear, a shelter: his body has been so many things that her own can't. So when he shakes, she sees it, and she aches to touch him, and let her body do what his can't.

But he asked her to wait, and until he asks her for something else, she'll stay right where she is.

When she shifts to let her weight rest more on her good leg, Donnie's eyes don't flick downward to track her movement. They stay locked on her face, and the only noise in the room is the almost-silent rattle of his breathing.

"What happened to you, Donnie?" April asks, the question breaking out of her before she can snatch it back. Her hands lift, reaching out to him, ready to cradle his head between them. There's so much _weight_ on his shoulders, and it wasn't there when he left for the lab. Jenny, for all her bluster and teasing, has never left Donnie like this, so what did? What crept into his safe, quiet lab, and left him like this?

Donnie shakes his head, a bare twitch, and his throat jumps.

"You don't have to tell me what's wrong," she says, inching closer, watching to make sure he doesn't flinch away from her. "But please, let me help you. I'm here."

"You w—" Donnie cuts his sentence off, shaking his head again, distress etched into his face like fault lines. He's not as quick to lock down the liquid-flame ache in his head; it flows out of him and into April, and buries itself in her head like a scythe.

She hisses a gasp through her teeth, and reels, struggling for balance. It burns, but it's not flame, not at all — it's _ice, _and it makes what she felt in Donnie's head last night feel like a summer breeze. This is _winter_, snow-choked mountains and ice underfoot, air freezing in her lungs, it's —

Despair. What she feels is perfect, holy despair.

"Oh my god," she wheezes, the breath knocked out of her and the room spinning around her. No one deserves this feeling. It's bleak, and cold enough to whip the air out of the room, the kind of cold she had only read about and never thought she would experience. But the cold keeps coming, like an army on the march, and above it all shrieks a high and lonely wind.

Then she's swallowed by the wind and pinned between its teeth.

* * *

_It's too dark to see much beyond desks, old computers, and a dusty collection of beakers, but April knows this is a place she's never seen before. All the angles are unfamiliar, and the air is too cold, much too cold, for it to be Donnie's lab. He always manages to keep it a precise seventy degrees, balanced neatly between arid and too-dry. _

_And Donnie would never, not in a thousand years, allow_ dust _to show its grey face in his lab. _

_Could it be the Kraang's? _

_April shakes her head. She refuses to think about all the white panels, and what hides beneath them. Instead, she takes a careful step into the dark room, watching her footing when something crumbles under her shoes. Every movement echoes, and even her pulse thunders too loudly in her ears. _

_Her empathy may be muted, but ten years' worth of training would warn her if she was in any immediate danger. Besides, this might be a dream — and no matter what scary stories try to tell you, it's impossible to die of fright. _

_She makes it five steps into the room before a light flicks on, far in the back of the room. It goes off again immediately, and someone's low voice rumbles in the distance. _

_April licks her lips, swallows, and decides to see what happens when she speaks. What's the worst that could happen? If it gets too creepy, she'll wake up. And Donnie will be there._

_"Hello? Is anyone there?" _

_Something thin and fragile — a test tube, maybe, so old it's brittle — shatters. No one responds, but the silence around her has a gathered, held-breath quality to it now. She's not alone. _

_"Hello?" April threads her way between two desks. "Uh, sorry to barge in like this, but —" _Is this a dream or not? Help me out a bit, subconscious. _"But I'm not sure where I am. Can you help me?" _

_Her foot catches on the leg of a chair. She tumbles forward, gasping, and barely keeps from falling. Her pulse deafens her, thudding in her ears until it's the only thing she can hear. _Don't want to fall again, Jesus Christ._ She laughs, a little shaky, and stands up. _

_"If you want me to leave, just say so," she says when her breathing is under control again. She wants to wake up now; she might not be able to die in a dream but she doesn't want to dream about falling, either. "Seriously, I can just —" _

_Her voice shrivels to a whisper, then falls apart. Something is moving just beyond the last desk, a humped, crooked figure, wrapped in cloth so faded it has no color at all. _

Run, run_, screams her training. _Don't look, whatever you do, don't look_. _

_It moves like it's been beaten, like a kicked dog crawling back to its master, hoping for some small kindness. It's so tall, all spindly arms and legs and a heavy, heavy head. April tries to turn away, but this is a dream, and she's trapped in place, her feet rooted to the floor. All she hears is the sick rush of her heart, and she can't stop herself from looking up, and up, and when she sees the gleam of the figure's eyes, she feels like she's been slapped. _

You had to look.

_Donnie shoves the hood of his makeshift cape back and squints down at her. _

_"April?" he asks, and she can't look away, even though this Donnie is wrong. An old, ragged mask, no leather straps, marks on his neck and plastron, bent, ruined hands, and oh, his face. This is Donnie _old_, old and sad and —_

_This is what Donnie looks like when he's been broken: greyed-out skin, his eyes milky and dull, a concave curve to his belly that makes her throat ache to look at. His mouth twitches in a parody of a smile. On this Donnie, it's nothing more than a handful of bones, leaves in winter wind. _

_"April," he says, in a voice like a sigh, and reaches out for her. At the last minute, just before he touches her, he pauses, and April chokes out a sob. That pause is so _Donnie_, always giving her a way out, always doubting how much he's wanted, and seeing it in this Donnie is intolerable. She reaches back, her hands too clean, too small against his, and squeezes his fingers. She does it gently, because even in the dim light, it's impossible to miss how the knuckles are swollen and tender, and how none of the bones lie in straight lines anymore. His fingertips are ragged, no longer capable of any grace, or even efficiency. _

_This Donnie, with his destroyed hands, is the worst thing April has ever seen. _

_"It's me," she says, the words faltering. "I—" _

_"Shh," he says, absently, sternly, and brings his rough fingers to her mouth. It's the lightest of touches, barely there at all, but there's history in it too, and something quiet in his gaze. Something intimate; this Donnie has made this gesture before, touched her like this. "I almost forgot what you looked like," he says, his crooked mouth trembling. "That was the worst of all. Not being able to see you." He stops, frowns, and slowly pulls his hands away from her face. "Too young," he murmurs. "She's too young. Not right."_

_April tries to snatch his fingers back. She's not sure why she wants him to touch her so badly, but it's important that he does. It's so important that he never stops. But Donnie keeps withdrawing, until his arms are at his sides and he draws his cape around himself once more. _

_"Stupid," he says, his head dropping. "Almost fell for it. Just another trick."_

_If she felt like she had been slapped before, it feels like she's being flayed now. _

_"Donnie," she manages to say, reaching for his hands even as he shrinks away from her. "What happened to you?" _

_He steps away from her, shaking his head, a horrible, dry smile spreading across his mouth. "See, that's how I know it's a trick, you bastard," he says, and wags his finger at her. "The right one would know. Not my April." The smile fades, just as quickly as it came, and he starts to shuffle back into the dark. "Not my April," he says, over and over, until the lab is filled with the whispered echo of his lost voice. _

* * *

"Donnie —" She clutches for him, reeling, and his room slides back into focus. But it's not right, it's too cold, there's wind in her head that shouldn't be there and she can't breathe, she's lost something, she's lost, she's

_gone_

_The Bull opens one pond-sized eye — the other has been long burned away, and there is nothing to be seen here_ —_ as the Champions cry out in one voice. _

_Now. It must move while it still can, shifting the pieces while there is yet time. It can do so little, and it regrets this intrusion. Later, the Bull shall beg her forgiveness, but now it must grasp at this chance. The Boar has turned its attention elsewhere, to its wayward servant, and it shall not notice if the Bull adds this scrap of magic. _

_She gasps as the change takes her, a single ember against an entire winter, but her self gathers round the fragile heat. _

Forgive me_, thinks the Bull, even as it knows she cannot, will not, for this last, monstrous invasion. _

_Even if it saves her life and all the others besides, she will never forgive._

* * *

April slips back into her body, cold but thawing, faint threads of nausea dissipating, and finds Donnie watching her, mouthing her name.

_Am I yours? _she thinks, too full of the other Donnie, broken and alone, to say a word. _Let me be yours. _

She holds out her hands, ready for him to shrink away or shake his head, but Donnie grabs her wrist, clings to her like a lifeline, and lets out a long, shivering breath.

_Focus. He needs you. Don't cry. Be better. _

April's given herself these talks before — head high, back straight, act fine — but never quite so desperately. She doubts it'll work at first, because she is still so cold, and Donnie's hand on her wrist makes her think of rough fingers at her mouth, but Donnie looks at her, silently pleading for help, and she feels the first hint of steel in her spine.

"It's real, isn't it?" she asks, rhetorically. "The Boar." When Donnie nods, his pulse jumps in his throat and he squeezes tighter, until the thin bones in her hand creak. April doesn't protest. Let him take whatever she can give him; without him, she wouldn't have anything to give anyone, so he can have this, and she will be brave for them both.

She tugs him away from the door with the gentlest bullying she can manage, stroking his wrist and not letting go when he drags his feet. Instead, she lets him squeeze her fingers, watching and chewing on her tongue as he breathes through the pain in his legs. Red blotches, visible even in the low light coming from Donnie's desk lamp, have begun to show through the bandages on his left thigh, but April can't think of leaving him long enough to get fresh gauze. This is where she needs to be, letting Donnie crush her hand in his as she eases him to the bed.

When they get there, he doesn't let her pull him down to the mattress. He draws her in close, until there's barely a finger's-width separating them, and lifts his hand to hover near her throat.

It's only when he hesitates that April comes right up against how dangerous Donnie can be. She's always know that he's brilliant, and watching him fight astonishes and unnerves her in equal measure. But with his hand inches from her neck, she feels how powerful he is, how he is not human and never will be, and she knows he could hurt her without making an effort.

He won't hurt her. Never has, never will. The same hand waiting to feel her pulse is the same hand that caught her as she fell, all those years ago. So she tilts her head back, baring her throat, and holds his gaze as she nods.

Donnie's hand settles over her neck, and April shivers as his heavy thumb traces her pulse. He's so careful, so delicate, but all April can think of is how nothing about them or this moment or the weight of what they feel is safe. They will always be too much, they will always be monsters. They will always have each other.

"We'll kill it," she says, as his thumb moves up to rest against her chin. "I promise you. It's dead."

Something in her shifts, something _hungry_, and April closes her eyes.

She stays silent and still until he takes a breath — the first full breath she's heard since he came back to the room — and slowly, reluctantly lets his hand fall to his side.

"Dead isn't good enough," he says. "It needs to be —"

"— gone," April finishes for him. This is an old conversation. They've had it for each of their enemies. _Dead_ is only the first step; _gone_ is the endgame. No miracles for what waits in the dark.

"Gone," Donnie agrees, tucking her hair behind her ear. He draws himself up, head high, and April imitates him. Yes, they're still broken, but they're still here, still ready to fight. They always are.

"Let's go tell the others," April says. She takes his hand, hides her fingers in his, and together they head into the lair.


	5. Interlude: A Pattern of Stillness

**A/N: **This fic takes place a few hours after the end of Walking Wounded, and overlaps slightly with the events in Interlude: Simple Gifts. Miyamoto Usagi belongs to his eponymous series of comics by Stan Sakai.

* * *

Leo takes his time over breakfast, not speaking, barely listening to the voices around him as he cuts the cinnamon roll on his plate into tiny, tiny pieces. His throat aches with every swallow, but he keeps eating, one methodical bite after another. Usagi may not be looking at him, may only be a warm, implacable presence at his side, but his friend is paying attention, even if his focus seems to be completely absorbed by Mikey's never-ending monologue.

It's clear, even to Leo, that Mikey isn't actually saying anything. Oh, he's forming words and sentences, and some of them even make sense, but what he says doesn't matter. Doesn't even register. What Mikey's doing is filling the silence as only he can, distracting the dark tendrils trying to creep into their bright, worn kitchen with noise and laughter. Misdirection. Camouflage.

_I don't thank him enough for this_, Leo thinks, his hand shaking as he tries to lift a meager forkful to his mouth. _I don't thank any of them enough. _

He thought the worst of his anger washed away the night before, in the quiet minutes after April left him by the koi pond. Leo breathed the silty, heavy air, and imagined his rage and his grief and his longing dropping into the water, past the silent fish, to where light couldn't reach them. He wanted to leave them there, so no matter what shape the battle took, he could be pure when he faced it. _Wash me clean_, he prayed — not to any gods he could name, but to silent voices, vague shapes, distant shores — _let me be whole as I face this. Let me be what my family needs. _

_Please._

Then he cried at his father's side, each tear like the lash of a whip, or the bite of a blade, and when he laid himself down to sleep, he felt clean, if not forgiven.

It hadn't lasted. He wasn't ready.

The way he'd reacted to Usagi appearing in his kitchen was proof of that. It wasn't like him to be so open with his need; he was a leader, his brothers and father came first, and if he had anything to spare after that, he would turn his focus to his friends.

And then Karai —

He drops his fork, and the clatter of metal against porcelain cuts across Mikey's words and leaves them all silent.

Leo doesn't flush or apologize. He picks up his fork, scoops up another piece of cinnamon roll, and lifts it to his mouth. He knows Usagi and Mikey are looking at their own plates, rather than him, and that Raph is staring at him with badly-concealed fury in his gaze, but Leo ignores them all. He chews, swallows, and doesn't taste.

"So then I said —" Mikey says, brightly, only to stop himself when Usagi lays a warm, heavy hand on Leo's shoulder.

"Don't," Leo chokes, his fists tightening on his fork. "Just — let's eat, it's fine."

"I disagree," says Usagi, with Mikey and Raph murmuring their agreement. "I do not know all that happened, Leonardo, but I know she was involved, and that what is coming is a storm you should not weather alone."

Leo will be indebted to Usagi forever, for many reasons, but not least of all because of the way he said _she_, without a twist or a sneer or any particular emphasis. It gives Leo the chance to look up from his plate, and meet everyone's eyes without flinching, the way he wouldn't have been able to if her name had been spoken.

It took him so long to realize what he felt for Karai wasn't a simple case of savior complex, or loyalty to Splinter. No, he'd gone ahead and fallen in love with her, as if he hadn't learned anything from watching Donnie. He loved her, and hated how he saw the Shredder's teachings in every word, every movement, every laugh, and oh, how had he thought it could be any other way? She didn't want to be saved, and not by him, most of all.

Really, the scars on his arms and neck were the best he could have hoped for. Leo was lucky to escape with so little. Karai always liked to take trophies.

"A storm," he says, to no one at all. "That's what Rahzar said, right before —"

"Perhaps," Usagi interrupts, squeezing his shoulder, "it is better if you tell me everything, from the beginning. After you have eaten. Where is Donatello? Is he occupied?"

"He's sleeping," Raph says, speaking over Mikey's "Occupied with _April_, if you know what I mean."

Usagi's nose twitches, the only sign that yes, he does know what Mikey means, and is choosing not to acknowledge it. Leo smiles, a sad ghost of a smile, but Mikey poking at reserved, fastidious Usagi will never _not_ make him smile.

"And Casey Jones?" Usagi asks. "I thought you said he was here as well, Raphael. Is he not well?"

"It was —" Raph narrows his eyes. It's still a struggle for him, four years on, to talk about Casey except in the vaguest of terms, but Leo knows it's not from reluctance or shame. Raph left shame behind years ago — Raph _likes_ himself now — but language fights him, every single time. As long as Raph can act, he's fine. But now, he's tongue-tied. "It was a bad night," he finally says. "I'm gonna go check on him." He shoves his chair back, the legs scraping on the tile floor, and stomps out of the kitchen without a backwards look.

Leo waits for Usagi to comment on Raph's abrupt exit, but Usagi only turns back to Leo, one brow arched at Leo's plate, which is still mostly covered with food, even though Leo thoroughly dissected everything on it. Leo sighs, and takes another bite. On a normal day, he'd consider it a minor sin to grudgingly shove Anna's cinnamon rolls into his mouth without tasting them, but he can't help feeling like he's swallowing mouthfuls of mud, over and over.

His throat still burns, his eyes are swollen, and Karai isn't dead.

Mikey mutters something about taking breakfast to Splinter, and leaves the table without another word. He scrapes his plate clean in the trash and leaves it in the sink before putting a tray together and slipping away.

Now Leo is alone with Usagi, and he can't think of a thing to say.

Leo remembers the earliest days of their friendship, when he was eighteen and all too eager to follow Usagi around, on the off-chance that they could spar, or talk philosophy, or just sit quietly and rest. Hero worship, plain and simple, and his brothers gave him _hell_ for going all moon-eyed over a samurai — a _rabbit_ samurai, to be precise. If Usagi heard their teasing, he never acknowledged it. Leo learned very quickly that Usagi's code of etiquette was just as rigid as his code of honor — though both, Leo also learned, were capable of bending. Just a little, just enough for them to form a friendship, despite the lines and dimensions between them.

Usagi came while Leo healed from the Shredder's game, saying little, content to sit quietly at Leo's bedside and read while Leo slept, letting his brothers and Splinter rest, sharing the burdens. And if he ever saw Leo in the grip of his nightmares — the blades, the teeth snapping at his heels, and the roar building under the fire — he never said anything, and never judged.

_He's here now_, thinks Leo, setting his fork aside. _If he didn't judge me when I was an idiot, he won't now. _He sends a silent thanks to his brothers for leaving him to tell this story in private, then clears his throat.

"There's something very wrong in New York," is how he begins.

* * *

It is clear from the very beginning that Leonardo is not a storyteller by nature. He stutters, breaks his sentences through the middle, and speaks more to his hands than to his audience. Usagi watches his friend's hands move in uncertain motions, like lamed birds attempting flight, and does his utmost to keep his rage from showing too plainly on his face.

He should focus on Leonardo's voice and not allow this rage to distract him, but it is difficult when he can so clearly count the lines in Leonardo's skin, drawn from fingers to neck, and clustering in a knot at the back of his skull. There is no curse dark enough for this rage; he has never met Karai, and the Shredder died soon after Usagi met the turtles, but he despises them. He prides himself on not allowing his emotions to overrule his control, or his sense of justice, but here is where he stumbles, confronting such vicious, gleeful malice. Those lines were not an act of war; if they had been, Usagi might have found it within himself to look at them with clarity.

Usagi cannot.

"But this malignancy, it did not start here," he says into the quiet kitchen, when Leonardo has fallen silent again after trying once more to begin his tale. The words resist all Leonardo's attempts to be spoken, and he sinks deeper into his shell with every failure. Soon, it will not be possible for him to speak at all, and Usagi cannot bear the thought of such silence. Karai, the Shredder, and the damned Foot have stolen so much already from this family. They will not reach out from the worm-ridden holes in which they hide to steal Leonardo's voice as well. So he will draw the words out himself, if need be, as gently as he can.

Leonardo's relief is clear in his gaze, and Usagi remembers how _young_ Leonardo still is, a full ten years younger than Usagi's thirty-six. He still thinks the line between good and evil is a stark distinction — a struggle Usagi fought himself, what seems like a lifetime ago.

Were they ten years younger, and Leonardo still a boy trying to be a leader, Usagi would try to guide him through this struggle. No one should have to face it alone, as Usagi did, as no doubt Master Splinter did, but the time for Usagi to lead Leonardo has long passed. He cannot pinpoint where the change began, but Leonardo is no longer somewhat of a pupil, but an ally and comrade. A friend.

To deny that he misses those days of Leonardo's comparative innocence would be the most selfish of lies. The turtles were barely out of childhood when he met them, but they were already soldiers — indeed, their entire lives have been colored by war, and he mourned that in the early days of their acquaintance. For all that he too is a warrior, he has had the luck to choose a great many of his battles, and not have them thrust upon him. What innocence he once possessed is gone, but he chose the path he treads.

Whatever choices Leonardo and his brothers might have made, had things not been as they are — and Usagi believes, presented with a different path, Leonardo would have taken one without the constant threat or need for violence — are lost to time, and to wars that they had no business fighting.

_Fathers_, Usagi thinks, his lip curling. _It is always the fathers and their legacies. Even now that one is dead, this poison lingers. Will it never be drawn out? How can I guide him through this maze?_

The answer is simple enough: he cannot guide — but he can listen, and offer what counsel he has.

Leonardo shakes himself, and nods in response to Usagi's words. "No," he replies, still not looking away from his hands. "I think it started a long time ago. Not anywhere near here either, but…" He lifts one hand in a graceless, futile gesture, and lets it fall back to the table heavily enough to rattle the plates. "Usagi, it's ridiculous. I can't believe I'm about to tell you this. Karai —" Leonardo shudders, his eyes closing, before he forces himself to go on. "She claimed it was the White Boar. That it was _real, _but — it's just a story. A story _I told her_, so of course she'd have to throw that back in my face, after everything else. Because she can't even leave that alone, she has to take everything and turn it into —"

Usagi waits while Leonardo composes himself, reciting poetry silently to keep himself from rising at once and finding Karai, wherever she lurks, and extracting payment for her sins. He wishes he could feel pity for her, for Leonardo's sake and for Splinter's, but there is nothing in Usagi's heart for Karai save that which is hard and dry and merciless.

She chose, long ago and far away, and her path is etched into Leonardo's flesh for the rest of his life. If Usagi could mark her so deeply, he would — though it would matter little, for nothing he could do to her would erase the stain she has left upon this family. A family that could have been_hers_, if she had chosen to be more than a weapon.

_Fathers_, Usagi thinks again, a red mist rising before his eyes. He wills it away, for this fury can benefit no one, least of all the friend before him.

When Leonardo has unclenched his fists and opened his eyes, Usagi pushes a bowl of fruit toward him. Leonardo makes to shove it away, but Usagi pins him with a stern glare — the age difference is still useful for something, provided Usagi does not abuse it — and Leonardo picks up a peach with a put-upon sigh. Usagi smiles, his heart lighter with every bite Leonardo takes. By the time nothing is left but the pit, Leonardo is smiling back, wiping the juices from his mouth and chin with the back of his arm.

"I have never heard this story," Usagi says. Once more, he pushes the bowl toward Leonardo until its rim bumps his arm, and softens the unspoken request by choosing an orange of his own. A long time ago, Michelangelo taught him the trick of peeling the orange in one long strip, and he practices now, slitting the rind and slowly pulling it away from the sweet flesh.

"What? You want me to tell it to _you_?" Leonardo asks, pausing with his hand over another peach. "Usagi, it's just one more lie. It doesn't matter."

"You told her the story," Usagi replies. "There is a reason why she chose to bring it up now."

"Yeah." Leonardo stares at the bowl, brow creasing, then shoves it away and leans back in his chair. "I'll tell you the reason. She wanted to mess with my head, again. It's what she _does_." He rubs the back of his neck. His mouth twists as he realizes what he is doing, and his hand falls to his lap as he gives Usagi a guilty, sad smile.

That smile is a keen blade sliding between Usagi's ribs. There is no escaping it, or the anger that follows. Leonardo may say he is free of her — he has said it for years, since his jaw healed enough for him to speak — but he is not free, and the lines in his flesh are only the least of the shackles that bind him to Karai. Usagi takes a deep breath, and focuses on the fruit in his hand, and its smell in the air.

"You really want to know?" Leonardo asks.

Usagi nods as the rinds falls to his lap, one long garish strip of orange. "Everything is useful," he says, and Leonardo laughs.

"Now you sound like Sensei," he says, and misses Usagi's little sneer of distaste as he reaches for his glass of water. He takes a long swallow, draining the glass completely, then turns to Usagi with that same guilty smile. "Once upon a time," he begins, then laughs again when Usagi frowns at him.

"Sorry, sorry. Stupid joke." Leonardo sighs, rolling his peach between his hands. "It's just…it's going to sound stupid no matter how I start. Figured I might as well start out as ridiculous as I could make it." He hesitates, his hands going still, and when he speaks again, his voice bears no resemblance to the voice of the boy Usagi met on a rainy night. This is the voice of a general, facing a new enemy when he thought his war was over.

"There's two of them, two gods. The White Boar and the Black Bull. And they've been fighting for — for as long as they've both existed. The Boar eats, and the Bull tries to stop it." Leonardo tosses the peach from one hand to the other. "That's the story. Pretty straight-forward, good-and-evil stuff. They weren't always gods, they started out as just animals, and then something happened to them, and turned them into gods."

"Something happened?" Usagi asks, before Leonardo can go on.

"Yeah, the story isn't really clear on a lot of details. But I always thought it had to do with hunger — the Boar eats, right? The story says the Boar eats _everything_. Not just food, but people — and worlds. Entire universes, gone bite by bite." Leonardo opens his mouth, like he wishes to take a bite of his peach, then sets the fruit aside. "And the Bull's the one who fights it, every inch of the way."

Usagi stares at the orange slices in his paws. The smell is still irresistibly sweet, but he no longer has any appetite. The story is no more horrifying than any other he has heard in his life, save for one idea: universe after universe, slipping down the throat of a monstrous, howling beast.

It is not simply horrifying, it is terrible beyond words to think of so many innocent lives snuffed out for the sake of sating a vast hunger. What could be so hungry that an entire universe is not enough to fill it? What kind of god would demand such sacrifice?

"The story doesn't tell us why they're fighting, or why the Bull cares, but I always thought it was —" Leonardo props his head on his hand, so thoughtful and so young that Usagi feels a thousand years old. "I thought it had to do with what they were. The Boar's a wild animal. Its life was always kill or be killed. So it eats. But the Bull? Humans domesticated cattle. Some cattle, at least. Humans fed them, cared for them, used them for work. There's a…covenant there." He picks up the peach again, and holds it close to his mouth. "Maybe enough loyalty for a god to care."

"I see," says Usagi. _I see, though I do not want to. _Even to himself, his voice is strained, and he buys himself a moment to think by eating a orange slice. Once he has chewed, and swallowed, he meets Leonardo's eyes. "This is a story Master Splinter told you?"

Leonardo laughs unexpectedly, leaning forward with his hand on Usagi's shoulder. The contact eases Usagi's heart, for Leonardo rarely reaches out, and these affectionate touches must be treasured when they occur. "Yeah, I know, right?" he says, still smiling as he straightens. "Telling scary stories to get four little kids to go to sleep. It shut us up, at least."

"I would think that getting children to sleep should not involve outright terror," Usagi says, and by the way Leonardo quirks a wry, sad smile at him, he knows that some of his ire at Master Splinter has shown through. Before he can apologize, Leonardo has turned his attention back to the peach and is speaking once more, in a quiet, musing voice.

"For gods, they're not too big on fighting their own battles. They get people to do it for them — the only difference between them is that the Boar tricks people, and the Bull's honest about it." Leonardo sighs. "That's what Karai said. The Boar asked her what she wanted, and she got it, but it took her heart as payment." He begins to roll the peach in his hands once more, and the motion sparks a low flame of irritation in Usagi's gut. Would that Leonardo would just _eat_ the damned thing —

Usagi blinks. His rage is familiar, but this annoyance feels like an ill-fitting glove.

"The Boar offers you what you want," Leonardo continues. "Your heart is the cost. Rips it right out of your chest, then hides it away, and it owns you, forever and ever. Amen." He sounds like a dreamer, as far from Usagi as if Usagi were still in his own world. "Then the Bull…it doesn't trick you, not like the Boar does, but it just demands your help. It names you its Champion, and off you go to fight its war like a good little soldier." He smiles bitterly at his peach, then at Usagi. "Story of my life."

"Leonardo —" Usagi says, and gives up, because he has nothing to say, and nothing he can do can erase this stain from his friend's heart.

"At least it gives you your _heart's desire_, if you survive the fight." Now Leonardo's voice is bitter, as bitter as his smile. "But that's the trick. The Boar almost always wins, because there's always somebody ready to sell out everything they care about to get what they want. Some of them don't even care about the price. Hearts are so cheap these days."

Usagi does not know if Leonardo is speaking of his own, or of Karai's, and dares not argue, not with Leonardo as brittle as a badly-used blade.

"It's just a story," Leonardo says. "The Boar and Bull. Just a scary story to keep us quiet at night. To keep us afraid." He clenches his free hand into a fist as his mouth trembles. "Sometimes I wish we had never gone topside."

That is as close to an indictment of his father as Leonardo will ever come, and Usagi does not pretend to know what it has cost him.

To soften the blow, Usagi speaks. "If you had not, I would not have known you."

It is a paltry gesture, for there is so much more he could say, that he should say, and yet the words will not come. Leonardo stares at him as if he is a stranger.

"Right," says Leonardo. "That's true."

Usagi's annoyance rises again, as sharp as a spear, and still unfamiliar. "It is not all lost, not yet," he snaps, and immediately regrets it. "If this is a story, as you say, then you have nothing to fear but her lies, and those you have faced before."

"Right," says Leonardo again. "Those I have faced."

Neither of them look at his arms, where the scars are a livid green against the rest of his skin.

"That's all there is to the story. Just the fight, over and over." Leonardo lets out a long breath and stands. He still holds the peach, though he does not seem to remember it. "Just one more trick." He starts, then glances down at the peach, as if amazed by its presence.

The annoyance comes over Usagi again as he sees Leonardo's hesitancy, and once more, he speaks more sharply than he wishes. "And what if it is? Why should you care? One more lie from Karai is but a drop in the ocean, Leonardo."

"But what if it's not?" Leonardo blazes. "I know, I'm an idiot, and I deserve what I get if she fools me again, but she was _terrified_. She begged us not to send her back — she begged _me_, after everything. But — what if it's not a trick? What if she told the truth? Just this once?"

"Has she ever?" Usagi sneers. "She does not seem to understand the word."

"_I know!_" Leonardo cries, and throws the peach at the wall, full-force. It shatters, rich pink flesh glistening as it streaks the stones.

"I know," says Leonardo, long moments later. He slumps, shoulders and head down, and makes his way to the mess. "I'm sorry," he adds. "Usagi, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have —"

Leonardo makes a noise like he is choking, and staggers away from the wall, moaning and with his arms held up to shield his face. Usagi is out of his chair before he realizes he is moving, catching Leonardo before he can fall.

"Leonardo, Leonardo! What is it?"

Leonardo thrashes in his arms, crying out, and it takes some moments before Usagi realizes that Leonardo is pointing, and trying to form words.

On the floor of the kitchen, the pit of the peach has cracked open, and something white has spilled out. A lily, sweetly-scented and white as milk against the grey of the stone floor.

"Lilies," Leonardo says, struggling for breath as the bloom's scent fills the kitchen. Usagi knows that no flower should smell so strong, so cloying, filling his nose and his lungs. "She smelled like lilies, Karai did, she smelled like —"

_This is madness,_ thinks Usagi, trying to hold Leonardo upright, trying to breathe through the smell and failing. _We are all of us mad_.

"It is not real!" he shouts, drawing Leonardo away from the flower — but the bloom is still growing, its petals a full hand-length long, and it will not stop growing. "Do not believe! It is not real, Leonardo!"

"It is," says a voice from behind him, as bleached as driftwood. Usagi turns as best he can, and over his shoulder sees Donatello and April in the doorway, Raphael and Michelangelo crowding in behind them.

"It's all real," says Donatello. "And I've seen it."

Leonardo goes very still, very still indeed, in Usagi's arms.

* * *

"You've seen it," Leo hears himself say. His voice seems to come from far across the kitchen, or maybe from under the cold stones, but not from him. He's freezing, every inch of his body, except for his scars, and those burn, slender veins of fire in his skin.

The lily's scent is everywhere, like sand in his mouth and lungs. He knows he's clutching Usagi's arm too tightly, but as long as the kitchen smells this way, he can't let go. With a little help from Usagi, he manages to pull himself upright, even though his legs tremble. At least he can put his back to the lily, and face Donnie.

Donnie, who looks about ten seconds from whiting out and tearing the lair down, like the only thing that's keeping him from destruction is April's grip on his hand.

"I've seen it," Donnie says again, and Leo has a horrible, dizzy moment where he thinks that they'll go back and forth like this forever, repeating themselves until the lily has overgrown the kitchen and swallowed them all. Then Donnie keeps speaking, and Leo feels the panic drain out of him, down past the fish and into the silty bottom. He breathes in, and even though he still smells the lily, he can loosen his grip on Usagi's arm — though he doesn't let go completely, not yet.

"The Boar was here," says Donnie, and that's as far as he gets before a shudder begins at his feet and works its way up through his legs. Leo watches, mesmerized, as the shudder reaches Donnie's neck and a rough, shapeless noise forces its way out of his mouth. He pulls away from April, veering off toward the sink, and slumps against the counter, his shell to all of them. Raph and Mikey try to follow him, but April stops them with a hard glare and they freeze in place.

"In the lab?" Leo asks. Donnie doesn't respond, doesn't move.

Something has broken his brother. Donnie never enjoyed the stories Splinter told them. He always wanted to be building, or tearing something apart so he could rebuild it, rather than listening to folk tales. Leo remembers his impatient sighs when it was time for bed, because time spent _listening_ was time not spent _working._ Donnie hated magic and ghosts and spirits; what he loved were wires and screwdrivers, circuit boards, logic, black and white. He loved the truth, and stories never told the truth.

And now the story is real, even if their only proof is a tooth, the lily, and what Donnie can't say. Leo will have to say it for him.

_Please, make me ready_, he prays, and lets go of Usagi's arm. He still has to tell the rest of the story. Already the words are burning in his throat, erasing the smell of the lily.

"There's one thing I didn't tell you, Usagi," he says. He doesn't look at Usagi; he keeps his eyes on Donnie, who is cradling his head in his hands. "The Boar almost always wins because it makes the Champion an offer. Whatever they want, to trade sides and betray the Bull."

When he was a child, old enough to lean his head on his father's knee, Leo wondered: _what if it was me? Would I be able to say no? Would I be able to beat the Boar? _

_Yes, I would. I have everything I want, right here. _

In the end, there was so much he wanted, and he never had any of it. The story has put its roots down all around him, and no offer has come for him. He is not the Champion. He is not the chosen one.

He's still only himself.

Donnie doesn't make a sound when Leo crosses the kitchen and lays his hands on Donnie's shoulders.

"That's how you know who the Champion is," says Leo, his voice crumbling at the edges. He closes his eyes, unable to stop the unbearable, sour relief rising in him. He has rotten wood instead of a beating heart, and he can't blame this rot on anyone but himself. "Donnie, what did it say it would give you?"

Raph starts to protest, but a soft, disbelieving sound is all that comes out. It might be _no_, or _not possible_, but it doesn't matter. Donnie turns around, his hands still cradling his head, and faces Leo.

_You've seen a god_, Leo thinks, sick at the cold age crawling into Donnie's gaze, and sick to his soul at how easy it is to think _I didn't, and I'm free._

Donnie says, "It won't kill you. It'll give me your lives if I go."

Leo waits for Mikey to whimper, or Raph to swear, but there is no sound in the kitchen but the steady, poisonous rustle of the lily's petals.

It's not him. He's just _Leo_.

It might be freedom he feels, or nothing at all. He can't tell.

Everyone is looking at him, waiting to follow his lead, and Leo wants to tell them that it doesn't matter, he's not the one who matters — but that means nothing. Donnie will not be alone in this fight.

Leo lets go of Donnie's shoulders slowly, reluctant to take away what little comfort he can give, but he must lead. He must be ready, and that means —

He crosses the kitchen with steady steps, his eyes forward, and picks up the lily. The petals feel like silk in his hand, and curl invitingly around his wrist. _Karai, _he thinks_, all I ever wanted from you was the truth, and now you give it to me, and it's this. _

His fist closes around the pit and the flower, and he crushes them both.

"Get Casey up," he says without turning around. "We need to get ready."


	6. Part One

**_March 14_****_th_****_, 1:03am. _**

"Your city smells like filth," Usagi says.

_We heard you the first three times_, Raph thinks, keeping his eyes forward. If he turns his head, he'll see Usagi's smug little face, and he'll see how Usagi's nose is twitching at the smell of _filth_, and then Raph is going to have to punch him. More than once.

At least the rain's stopped. For the past week, it's been nothing but rain, and as soon as Mikey and Donnie plug one leak in the ceiling, two more show up. Usagi could be thankful for _that_, but no, he's got to complain about how much the city stinks. With everything they've got going on, he's got to bitch about the _smell._

Raph's more glad than he can ever say that Usagi decided to stick around and try to help them keep their shit together, when no one would have argued if he just wanted to peace out back to his dimension, but he wishes like _hell_ that Usagi would shut his mouth. So New York stinks. It's not like Usagi is stuck here, or has to live in the sewer for the rest of his life. He's got somewhere better to go, whenever he wants. So if he doesn't like it, he can leave, and they'll deal with the smell on their own. It's what they've always done.

Usagi sighs, sniffs, and that's it. Raph's going to punch him. He can't help it; he managed to last two hours into patrol without saying shit, but he's hit his limit.

As he turns, already clenching his fists — just one punch, on the shoulder, he'll even pull it at the last second and pretend it was a joke — he catches Mikey's eye.

Mikey shakes his head. Just once, but Raph deflates completely.

If the first rule of the turtles is _don't fuck with family_, and the first rule of Casey Jones is _don't fuck with April_, then the first rule for dealing with Usagi is _don't be a dick to Leo's best friend_.

_Leo's mancrush, _Raph thinks, and glares back at Mikey. _How the hell am I gonna get through four more hours of this? _

Leo swings back up to the roof, without the grim set to his mouth that means he found trouble. "We're clear for the next two blocks," he says, sheathing his katana. "Let's move."

For the next hour, they dart over rooftops, one member of the team ranging ahead to count the next few blocks before doubling back to the group so they can all move on together. It's nothing like the rhythm Raph perfected with his brothers over the last decade and a half; Raph can't help feeling like they're not getting anywhere, even when he can look over his shoulder and see how far they've traveled. He wants to sprint off in one direction, and to know that Leo understands he's not just taking off for no reason, but to cover as much ground as possible. But he's stuck either waiting or circling back before he can run, and he feels jittery, impatient, like he's gotten into Donnie's coffee and then been forced to watch TV with Master Splinter, instead of working the caffeine off in the dojo.

With Usagi as the fourth member of the patrol, he can't run. They have to be patient, work Usagi into their routine, adjust to fit his skill set. It's not that much of a challenge — what do ninjas do? They _adapt _— but Raph doesn't want to adapt. He wants to fight, and he wants Donnie here, rambling about some new tech masterpiece. He wants Casey and April working the perimeters, watching for attacks on their flanks.

He wants it all back to normal.

_Normal. Right. _He lets Mikey pass him before the next jump, then crouches, relishing the gravel scraping under his feet as he pushes off, then springs into the air. There's always that one, stomach-flipping second when he wonders if this is the jump he judges wrong, and he'll slam into the side of a building, but he lands on his feet, already running. Leo and Usagi are at the other end of the roof, pointing and talking with their heads close, and Raph hopes that they've finally caught sight of someone worth pounding. It's been too quiet this past week, since the peach in the kitchen and Leo screaming and Donnie staring at them like he had no idea who they were.

Nothing good ever comes out of this much quiet.

_Normal_, he thinks again, as he catches up to the rest. _When we just had random goons to worry about, not some mystical asshole. I hate my life. _

* * *

** _March 6_****_th_****_, 9:30am. _**

_Over Anna's cinnamon rolls — she sent enough to feed an army of teenagers, or four mutant turtles and their friends — Leo starts to talk. _

_Raph ignores him; he never has anything to add to the first part of planning, and most of the time, Leo doesn't include him or Mikey. He'll come up with his plan, then he hauls Donnie in to say "But what about this? Or what if there are butt cannons? And here's my latest weird invention that's totally going to save our shells if you let me use it". Once they've hashed all that out, that's when Raph and Mikey join the fun, and figure out where they'll be able to make the most noise, and break the most stuff. _

_That part's still a long time coming, so Raph zones out and focuses on his third helping of lasagna, making sure Casey stays upright and awake long enough to get some soup into him. _

_"No! No! Why is this even a question?" _

_Raph glances up, already scowling, because April only sounds like that when she's getting ready to cut someone off at the knees. Sure enough, she's glaring at Leo, her hand clenched around her fork like she's about to plant it between his eyes. It wouldn't be the first time she's tried. Ninety percent of the time, Leo and April agree on everything, but it gets ugly when April thinks Leo's being an idiot. And since both of them are too stubborn to ever admit when they're wrong, this argument could go on for hours. _

_"We have no idea what we're going up against," Leo says, in the exact tone of voice he keeps for when he wants to sound like he's listening to you and telling you you're an idiot at once. Raph rolls his eyes. "We need all the allies we can get." _

_"So hauling Martin and Timothy into this — whatever this is — is an option? You're fucking kidding me." She throws her fork on the table and turns to Donnie. "Oh my god, you're not considering it too, are you?" _

_Donnie pushes his plate away, and Raph has two seconds to process Donnie's thoughtful, distracted frown before April explodes. _

_"They're not soldiers!" she yells. On the edges of his vision, Raph sees Casey grabbing for April's arm, wincing, and Usagi flinching away from the noise with a wrinkled nose, like he's just stepped in dogshit. "I can't believe you two would even _think_ this is okay." _

_"Leo might have a point," says Donnie, still thoughtful. "There are too many variables to be sure, but…"_

_"Oh, that smells like bullshit and you know it." April shoves away from the table, yanking her arm out of Casey's grip and sending him falling back against Raph's side. "Has there been some massive brain damage recently that I missed, or have you guys forgotten what happened the last time Timothy got involved? And Martin thinks it's all a game. He'll do it if you guys ask, but he won't get it. Fuck you, Leo, for even considering this." _

_Raph looks at Leo in time to see the first flash of real anger in his brother's eyes. Leo's gotten so much better about not taking criticism personally, but this isn't criticism, and Leo's about to say something he'll regret. Before he can, April keeps going, practically spitting. _

_"You want me to see if Kurtzman's free, Leo? You want to haul in an old man to fight some — some _god_ with us?" _

_Leo stands up, his hands balled into fists. "We're down to half our strength, April. What choice do we have?"_

_"Anything but this!" _

_"Is he free?" Mikey asks, spearing a forkful of noodles and twirling them in midair. "We haven't seen him in a while." _

_April blinks, Leo blinks. Raph snorts, and covers it by coughing and pretending to check Casey's bandages. _

_"Who?" April and Leo say in unison. _

_Mikey takes his time replying, chewing and swallowing the noodles first, then licking his fork clean. "Kurtzman. Cool guy, for an old dude." _

_"Uh." April blinks again, shaking her head. "No, he's at some chess thing. He'll be gone for another month." She takes a deep breath, rolling her bad shoulder, then inches back toward the table. She's apologetic now, and Leo is deflated — just the way Mikey planned, Raph knows, and glances across the table at Mikey. _

_Mikey grins at him, sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth, and keeps eating. _

* * *

**_March 14_****_th_****_, 2:57am._**

On one of Mikey's turns scouting ahead, Raph finally says what's been on his mind for a week.

"You know, I agree with April. About not bringing in anyone else."

Usagi cocks his head at Raph, a frown twisting the scar over his eye, but Leo doesn't react. He faces Mikey's direction, head lifted high.

"Do you?" he says finally, still not looking at Raph. "You didn't have much of a problem telling me to send in Timothy before."

Raph winces, even though he expected that, but he's got a response all ready. "Yeah, I know. But you remember how much it messed Donnie up. He's still blaming himself for all of that."

"Timothy let himself get mutated." Leo jumps down from the ledge, landing so softly the gravel under his feet barely stirs. "None of us were going to stop him. It wasn't Donnie's fault."

"That's not my point." Raph inhales, the cold air stinging in his throat — and yeah, Usagi wasn't kidding, the city _stinks._ "My point is, Donnie's already got enough to worry about. This Champion shit? We don't know what it means. He's got to fight the Boar, but how? And you know he's all creased up over April and Casey too. Why give him anything else to worry about?"

"So the moral question does not trouble you," says Usagi. "It is the personal complications that do."

"Yeah, however you want to say it." Raph shrugs. "Look, Leo, I get why you want to do this, but maybe…maybe not now? Table it for a while."

Leo narrows his eyes, and the old impulse to push into Leo's space takes hold in Raph's chest. He still doesn't quite have the trick of _not_ trying to bait Leo whenever he gets the chance, but he can resist. Most of the time.

"Can't use up everything we got at once," he says, and gives another shrug. "Just saying."

"It's not about a pre-emptive strike." Leo runs his hand over his head. "It's about having contingency plans. We're still down by three, Raph, and even if Donnie'll be back on his feet in another week or two, we've lost our eyes and ears. April can't exactly go home, and Casey's not going to be fighting any time soon. We're —"

"Hamstrung," says Usagi, when Leo hesitates over the words. "It is a good strategy," he adds, with only a wave of his hand when Raph glares at him. "Respect for one's enemy is a good strategy as well, Raphael."

"Whatever we're up against tried to _eat_ Donnie and Casey. I'm not respecting shit." Raph shakes his head, and turns back to Leo. "We keep a little in reserve, just in case. And that means Donnie can focus on — whatever it is he's got to do."

Leo nods, not really agreeing, but not shooting Raph down either. Raph knows when to shut up — most of the time, he knows — so he backs off, and walks to the edge of the roof and looks out over the city.

He really hates to admit it, but Usagi's right. The city does smell, but not like filth. More like what stunk up April's apartment a week ago, rotted meat and —

_Oh, shit. _He backs away from the edge, ice creeping through his chest, but the moment he opens his mouth to call Leo and Usagi, he sees a flicker of movement on a rooftop two buildings away.

Raph tenses, his hands moving to the hilts of his sai, and crouches down, out of sight. The movement is gone, but he knows he saw something — no, he saw _someone_, because it sure as hell had two legs and two arms.

"You got something, Raph?" says Leo, from just over his shoulder. Raph jumps — it's never not going to be freaky, the way Leo manages to be absolutely silent — and squints back at the roof.

If anything or anyone was there, it's gone now. But that smell still lingers, clinging to the back of his throat whenever he inhales.

_Probably just my brain messing around, since nothing's happened all night_, he decides, and shakes his head.

"Nothing. Nobody," he says, standing and turning to Leo seconds before Mikey leaps back to the roof, out of breath and pointing at the sky.

A flash of jade-green light blinds them all as it erupts over the city.

* * *

**_March 13_****_th_****_, 3:38am._**

Her leg and shoulder aren't aching, but April stands up to stretch her muscles anyways. She's felt fine for the past week, even with the lair cold and damp from the rain, but she doesn't want to risk a cramp by staying in one position too long. Besides, it's time to check on Casey, then to run the tests again, and see if she gets any new data.

The moment her chair scrapes against the floor, Donnie looks up from his microscope, eyes wide and unreadable.

"Everything's fine," she says. "Just going to look in on Sleeping Beauty."

That earns her a soft _ha_, but no smile, no easing of the tension lines on either side of Donnie's mouth. His shoulders are still stiff, begging for her hands to soothe the muscles under his skin, but April contents herself with one pat, one squeeze, and heads toward the common room. She hears Donnie turn back to his microscope before she's three feet away from the desk, but she knows he's aware of where she is, every step of the way.

He's said ten words to her at most since they started working in the lab at nine o'clock the night before, two variations on _could you pass me that_, but not wanting to talk doesn't seem to mean he wants her out of his sight. As soon as she moves, his gaze is on her, still a little stunned, a little frightened.

_What did you see_? April doesn't ask. The only thing crueler than not listening to Donnie when he needs to talk is forcing him to talk when he doesn't have the words yet. April isn't stupid; she knows whatever happened to Donnie between him slipping into the lab to talk to Jenny and coming back to the room with his head full of ice had to do with her, and she knows that he'll tell her when she's ready.

With the Boar's shadow looming over all of them, and the new weight of being the _Champion_ weighing on his shoulders, April knows they don't have much time for Donnie to figure out how he wants to tell the story. She won't push, she won't press — but she wants to. He's dragged so much behind him all these years, and now she's ready to carry it for him, but he won't let her.

_Give him time_, she tells herself, and focuses on her test: what are her powers' perimeters, now that the Boar's done its work on her? Related: are her limitations based on proximity alone, or does staying within sight help? And is she still able to feel the turtles' and Casey's minds because she's felt them for so long?

How far can she go before she can't feel Donnie at all?

April know his mind so well; she's spent the last ten years being caught by surprise by its few jagged edges, being soothed by its calm weight. She can still sense him when she reaches the lab doors, warm, grey misery like goosedown in a dim room. Heavy as bags of sand, a taste like seawater on a cold day, broken only by the spear-tip of Donnie's intelligence. Yes, there it is.

With another step, it's gone.

She pauses midstep, trying to reorient herself. Fifteen feet. That's all she has before the gates come down and she's alone in her head.

_Good to know_. She rests her head against the cool doorframe and closes her eyes. It's ridiculous to feel like she's trapped when it's just her inside her skull now, without five other minds jostling hers, but she never felt hemmed in or caged before. Feeling their minds was an expansion, not an intrusion.

There are five steps between the outer edges of Donnie and Casey's minds. April wants to comfort herself by saying the walk feels like it goes on for centuries, or that every step she takes is harder than the last, but it takes barely any time at all, and each step follows the last without any extra exertion. It's normal to be the sole occupant of your mind, not the other way around, and trying to imagine anomalous qualities where none exist will do nothing but frighten her.

And really, April has enough to be frightened of, just as she is.

Casey's mind washes over her, like the sunlit water of the lake up by the farmhouse. Even sleeping, Casey's mind is never still, always roaming, questing for new space to fill with noise and light. It feels like well-worn flannel as April gets closer, and by the time she kneels next to the couch, she feels like she's wrapped in a heavy blanket.

"Hey, Casey," she says, not loud enough to wake him, and brushes the hair off his forehead. He's warm, though Casey always runs hot, especially compared to her and the turtles. It's not a fever, but April decides to wake up him in an hour and force some soup and aspirin into him, just to be safe. By then, Raph should be home, and can help if Casey decides he'd rather tough it out. Which, knowing Casey, he probably will; when Casey gets hurt, he tries to power his way through to the other side, like he can magically heal himself by being too stubborn for pain and medicine, and he's always furious when he ends up stuck in bed for twice as long. Like the time he got _shot in the ass_ by some over-eager Kraang, then tried to go to hockey practice, and ended up with a blood infection.

_Good times_, April thinks, letting her head fall to the couch. _My ex-boyfriend's an idiot._ She rubs Casey's back, lifting his shirt to check his bandage. The gauze is snow-white, clean as it was when Raph changed the dressing before patrol. His breathing is steady, with a slight whistle as it passes through his teeth, and April finds herself relaxing, drifting into a doze as she listens to him dreaming. Maybe he's dreaming of Raph, and whatever passes for romance between the two of them — beer and rug burn and slinging arms over each other's shoulders when they think no one is looking.

She laughs sleepily. Her last two cups of coffee were an hour ago, and now her exhaustion is settling deep into her bones. Falling asleep in this position means she'll wake up with a wicked crick in her neck, but she's warm. Down in the lair, that's an unexpected blessing, and she should grab a few minutes of rest before the rest of the guys come home and the lair is full of noise again. Before her head is crowded again.

Smiling at the thought, April reaches up to snag one of Casey's blankets for herself, and hears him groan.

"Casey? You awake?" she whispers, inanely, more startled than she expected. "You need me to get something —"

"Pretty," says Casey, his tongue lolling in his open mouth. The word is thick, clotted, like his throat is full of mud, but he works his jaw, swallows, and tries again. "Pretty, pretty girl."

April shoves herself away from the couch, nearly falling on her back as she does, barely feeling the protesting twinge in her thigh and shoulder. She doesn't know why the words terrifies her so much, but something in her shrivels at their sound.

"No." Her voice is so small, as fragile as an insect husk, and every instinct she has tells her to _run_, but her muscles aren't listening. She can't even stand. All she can do is watch Casey's mouth as it opens and closes, panting the same words again and again. His eyes roll under his lids, but don't open.

_He's asleep, he has to be_, she thinks, her heart pounding. _He doesn't know what he's saying. _

_But I do. _

There was a woman, a woman all in white on the train, with a crooked smile and a smell like jasmine, and she did something, touched April, planted something in her, something that took ever so long to grow, but it found fertile soil in April's body and now it's _growing_, it's grown so huge.

Now it's in Casey.

"Pretty," says Casey, his eyes still closed. "Pretty, pretty, pretty."

"No!" April tries to shout, but her voice is lost. Instead, she raises her hand, her five fingers spread wide, and snaps them closed into a fist.

She doesn't know why she does it; there's no instinct or silent instruction telling her what to do, but as soon as she feels her hand clench, Casey's mouth snaps shut, and the words are gone.

"Dammit," he mutters a moment later. His eyes open a moment later, filled with his usual bleary annoyance at being awakened. "Bit my tongue." He grimaces as he swallows, and keep grimacing as he rolls onto his back.

He's asleep again within minutes, snoring the way he always does when he sleeps on his back. April lowers her hand slowly, uncurling her fingers as she does. A faint smear of color catches her attention; there, in the palm of her right hand is a tiny, perfect crescent of frostbite-black skin.

"That's — that's new," she says to fill the silence.

Just for the sake of argument, she lifts her left hand, palm-up.

A slash, white as whale bone, bisects her palm from wrist to knuckle.

"Oh, Jesus," she mutters. "You've got to be kidding me."

* * *

**_March 13_****_th_****_, 8:12am. _**

She's gotten a hell of a lot better at tracking over the past few months, but the freaks almost had her this time. Thank God that weird flash — whatever the hell _that_ was — had distracted them, or she'd be in the shit for sure. The short one in red saw her, no mistake, but she got away before he could get a good look.

Next time, she'd get close enough to hear them talking. No way they were gonna run around her neighborhood without her doing something about it.

She stashes her sticks down in the laundry room of her grandmother's building. If Gran sees her with them, she'll have to deal with head smacks and hollering and just — no. She's too tired for that this morning, and she's got class in five hours. Just enough time to grab a nap and a shower, then to watch the news to see if someone's figured out what that flash was.

Not like New York doesn't already have enough shit to deal with. Aliens, mutant freaks, and now lights in the sky. And there was that smell, too, thick as maple syrup and twice as nasty as the dumpster out back of the butcher shop.

Too much weird shit. She can't let herself get distracted; she's gotta look out for her neighborhood first, for Gran and all her friends. And that means figuring out what those green freaks are up to, and leaving that light to the brainiacs.

_Gotta be more careful. Might not be so lucky next time_, she warns herself, kicking off her boots outside Gran's apartment door and toeing into her house slippers. "I'm home!" she calls softly as she opens the door, Gran's already in the kitchen, making breakfast. "Did you see that flash? What the hell do you think it — ow! Gran!"

Her grandmother backs away, hand still in prime head-smacking position. "Angel, you got too dirty a mouth for such a pretty girl."

She glowers, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. "Told you not to call me Angel. I'm not ten years old anymore, Gran."

Gran reaches up and pats her cheek, shaking her head. "You're always gonna be my angel. Now, what's this about some light? You hanging out at the clubs?"

Angel laughs, flopping gracelessly onto the couch. "Nah, none of that sh —stuff," she says, when Gran pulls her hand back. "Just up top, you know, looking out."

"You should be sleeping, not running around looking for trouble." Gran puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head. "You work too hard. You need to take care of yourself."

"Yeah, who's gonna take care of you if I don't?" Angel pushes her hair off her forehead and gives Gran a hard look. "There's some weird guys out there."

"I got friends," says Gran, with another shake of her head. "You don't need to worry about me."

"I always will. And Anna and Sandra and all those ladies aren't much of an army. Not when there's…green freaks running around." Angel picks at her fingernails, not noticing Gran's unblinking gaze till the silence gets too heavy, and she looks up. "What? Gran, what is it?"

"You said green freaks?" says Gran. "You mean like, turtles?"

Angel sits up so quickly she tumbles off the sofa. "What? You've seen 'em? Gran, are you okay? Were they in here? Did they — did they hurt you? Oh my God — _ow, Gran!_"

"Don't you dare take the Lord's name in vain," Gran snaps, her eyes glittering.

"All right, all right, I'm sorry, but — Gran, you've _seen_ those guys? Are you okay?"

"Four of 'em, right?" Now Gran's smiling, her blunt white dentures on display. She looks — _happy_, not freaked out like Angel would expect.

"Yeah," she says slowly. "Four. Got different colored masks, too. I only saw three of 'em tonight, though — they had some, like, _rabbit_ with 'em tonight. I don't know. He was all dressed up like some kinda samurai. It was _weird._"

Gran bursts out laughing, clutching her stomach and wheezing hard enough that Angel has to haul her to an easy chair before she can recover.

"Oh, Angel," she says through a gasp, after Angel brings her a glass of water. "I don't know about this samurai bunny, but those green freaks of yours? They're nice boys. Sit down. I got a _lot_ to tell you."

* * *

**_Else-when. _**

"No sunrise today," says Raphael. Leonardo hears the rustle of his jacket, then the creak of the old seat as Raphael settles in next to him. "Still want to send out the patrols, fearless leader?"

Leonardo nods. He sets his cup aside — not tea, just a few dried mint leaves in hot water — and stretches his fingers. It's not too cold today, not too wet either, and his knuckles aren't quite so swollen as they were yesterday. "Tell them to follow Wednesday's pattern. Can't have them getting predictable."

"You got it. I'll tell the squad leaders at shift change." Raphael leans back with a sigh. "How're you feeling today?"

"Fine." He tilts his head back and takes off his glasses. The room around him is a dull, grey blur, with or without his glasses, but he can see brighter spots of color: Raphael's skin, a faded pink blanket throw over a yellow couch. "No headaches, but vision's about the same as it was."

"You should get that doctor guy to take a look at you, the one who came in with the last group. He used to be a general practitioner down in Florida, back before."

"Sure," says Leonardo, slipping his glasses back on. "I'll get right on that, Raphael."

His brother sighs, an ugly, worn-out sound, but doesn't argue. They're not easy together, they never will be, but they've both learned how not to make the cracks any deeper.

"You heard from Mike lately?" he asks, when Raphael starts to shift like he's about to leave. The silence before Raphael responds is too long for the answer to be anything but _no. _

"Nah. Last I heard, he was somewhere up in Massachusetts. One of the supply runners saw him near the old farmhouse." Raphael sinks back into his seat, the cushions groaning. "He's still looking."

Leonardo shakes his head. "He should know better."

"You can tell him that if he ever decides to come back."

His hands want to clench into fists, but he'll pay for it later if he lets them, so he picks up his cup again, more to have something to hold than to drink. "It's been almost thirty years," he says, as calmly as he's able. "We're running out of time to fight. Mike shouldn't be wasting his time looking."

"Then maybe you should be doing a better job keeping your troops in order, Leonardo," says a new voice. Leonardo sits up straight, his cup forgotten, and feels Raph do the same at his side.

"You're back," he says, choking on the words.

"Yeah," says Mike. "For now. Needed to grab some stuff before I went out again."

_He sounds so old_, Leonardo thinks, on a wave of futile longing. They all do. Even the children born since the war started sound ancient, but it's Mike's voice that brings it home every time he hears it. He wonders if Mike still has freckles. There's no sun now to bring them out, but Mike always had them when they lived in the sewer, so maybe. Maybe. It'd be nice if some of those good days remained. Just this one thing.

"Again?" says Raphael. "Mike, seriously, you've gotta stop."

"No." It's a simple refusal, flat and empty. Leonardo closes his eyes, so his world is just black instead of variations on grey. "I'm not going to stop. There's something out there. A clue."

"If there was, we'd have found it by now." Leonardo mouths the words, feels them leave his throat, but they don't feel like something he would say. They've been following this script for so long that the words don't make any sense. Mike hopes, Raphael asks him to stay, and Leonardo tells him there's no more hope to be had. He doesn't need eyes to see that.

"If we'd all look together, maybe we'd find something," Mike argues, but with no real conviction. "Whatever. I'll be gone in the morning. You guys…yeah."

Leonardo listens for his footsteps to recede, or a door to close, but he hears nothing but his brothers' steady breathing. Even that sound is wrong, not quite whole, and he hates how it still hurts, how this wound won't heal.

"Leonardo, we're almost — Mike?"

_Speaking of wounds_, thinks Leonardo, opening his eyes. Alice is here, her hair vivid enough to be a blur of red even through his glasses.

"Hey, kiddo," says Mike, his voice light for the first time. "Looking good."

Alice laughs, and Leonardo imagines her shoving her hair behind her ears, and her bright, crooked smile. "Don't even start, we both know I look like hell. Hug?"

"For you? Anytime."

Leonardo hears them embrace, a quick, tight hug, and his brief wish that Alice would hug _him_ is gone before Alice's footsteps cross fully into the room.

"So where've you been?" she asks. "Supply run?"

Mike hesitates, and Alice sucks in a breath through her teeth.

"Oh. Right. Stupid me." She breathes in again, loud enough for Leonardo to hear. Raphael stands up, leaving Leonardo alone on the couch. He can picture Raphael moving in to intercept Alice before she loses her temper, one hand on her thin shoulder.

"Alice, I —" Mike hesitates again, and Alice leaps in, talking to Leonardo now, as if Mike no longer exists.

"Casey gave me the evening patrol reports, so I'm ready to go over them when you are," she says, the soldier again. "Nothing new except some building collapses. We'll have to change patrol routes to compensate."

"Alice," says Mike. He's almost pleading. "Come on, you gotta understand."

_She's giving him that look of April's_. _The shitlook. _Leonardo is so sure of this he'd stake his life on it, not that there's much of that left to stake.

"You do what you want, Mike. It's not my business," says Alice, in the arctic tones she could only have learned from one person. There's one bloody, aching second when Leonardo thinks he hears another voice underneath hers, and even if he doesn't have it in him to hope, anymore, that things could get better, there's still enough of him left to wish they were still a family.

"He's my brother," says Mike, his voice choked and close to tears, "And they're your —"

"They're _gone_, Mike." Leonardo wishes Alice would throw her clipboard or shout, like the Alice of fifteen or even ten years ago would have, but she only sighs, a grey, weary sound in Leonardo's grey, weary world. "Hope's for idiots. When are you going to get over it? I did."

No, she didn't, Leonardo knows, but it won't help Alice to remind her that they're all orphans now, one way or another.


	7. Part Two

**A/N: **Apologies for the long wait, and thank you for sticking with me!

This contains a lot of shippiness. A lot. And there's more to come soon, because there was so much shippiness that I had to break the chapter in half. Enjoy!

* * *

**_March 14_****_th_****_, 3:34am._**

_Did you think I had forgotten you, my lovely, my Karai? _

The voice slides into her; not like ice, but like a cold, cold blade through her belly. She twitches, almost waking, shying away from the voice that fills her. She can taste it as it rises through her throat.

_Time to wake, lovely one. You have slept, and now you must rise and play. I am come to the city. _

So, it's beginning. If she's been left to sleep, which servants has the Boar sent out into the skies and streets? Which silent, grinning faces peer into windows, licking their lipless mouths as they watch families sleeping?

_Wake up._

The voice takes hold of her spine, and it isn't gentle; Karai is allowed one shriek as she jolts awake, then the Boar takes control of her body once more, and she's left panting on a cool marble slab.

"My lovely," says the Boar, through her mouth. "Wake up, there is so much to do, so much to see. So much to _taste._"

Karai watches the ceiling. She can't blink unless the Boar allows her, and so her eyes prickle and burn and water as she stares.

"You failed me, Karai, you failed me, the brothers still walk and plan and they are _not afraid_." The last word scatters in her mouth, and her jaw wrenches to the side, muscles and tendons straining against the pressure. Her teeth catch her tongue and now the taste of her own blood fills her mouth.

So Leo is still alive. She can't take comfort in that, because even if he could he wouldn't rescue her now, but she takes —

She takes _satisfaction._

The Boar feels it, and the wrench in her spine was nothing compared to what she feels now: a sudden, iron-flavored surge of pain that covers her from hips to shoulders. She tries to scream, but the Boar slams her mouth shut and the scream stays locked behind her teeth, vibrating through her as she simply endures the agony.

When the Boar releases her from its control, she opens her mouth to let the scream escape, but nothing comes out but a thin, shuddery rasp. The pain stays where it is, wrapped around her, piercing her.

"What —" she says, when she's found her voice again. "What do you want me to do? Find you a meal?" The Boar has always sent her out before, to harvest and prepare the table.

"Oh, my lovely, no, not tonight." The Boar smiles its mad, sweet smile down at her. "Not tonight, no, I have fed. Do you not see?"

_No. _

Karai tries not to look, but the Boar lifts her head for her.

This time, it lets her scream.

* * *

Waking up isn't too bad, just a stiff sore neck and a patch on his shoulder the gravel dug into his skin. Most practices leave him more beat up, but Raph could do without the gritty eyes and the sour, burned taste in the back of his throat.

He turns his head to the left, swallowing against the taste, and makes out Leo and Usagi's slumped shapes. A few feet away from them, he sees the dome of Mikey's head and an outflung arm. Everyone present and accounted for, and about as slow to get up as he is.

"That," says Mikey, voice muffled because he's still facedown in the gravel, "sucked balls, dudes. What _happened_?"

Raph grunts as he pushes himself up. Nothing's broken, barely anything's bruised, but there's a headache building in the very front of his brain that's shaping up to be a real asshole. "No clue," he says. "Leo? Any ideas?"

Leo's already on his feet, holding out one hand to pull Usagi up. "You came over that roof like you had something to say, Mikey," he says. When Mikey just groans and cradles his head, Leo sighs, a dry, ugly sound in the cold air. "Mikey, get with the program. What was it?"

Mikey groans again, but Raph doesn't miss how he peers through his fingers at Leo. Gauging how much more whining and dragging his feet that he can get away with, probably.

_Dumbass_, Raph thinks. He leans against the wall and tries to think past the headache.

"_Mikey." _The rising note in Leo's voice is a warning; it prickles the back of Raph's neck and down his arms. It says _get serious_, it says _stop dragging your feet_, it says _do your job._ The sound drives Raph nuts whenever he hears it, even if it's not coming in his direction, and this time is no different. He rolls his eyes, wincing when the headache stabs deep into his brain, and crosses his arms over his plastron.

"All right, already," Mikey says, unfolding all six feet of him as he stands. He still has to glare _up_ at Leo, but he's bulkier, and Raph knows that if Mikey decides to push back, Leo might not be able to move him. But it's too early for that, no one's really mad or fighting yet — just the headache, driving nails through Raph's skull, deeper and deeper. "There's some house down below. Before that flash, or whatever, I saw it light up like a Christmas tree. Like, it was all dark, and then it just lit up, all the windows, under the door, _everything_. And it was all that green light, too!"

"Where?" says Leo, his voice thin.

"About nine blocks west of here —" Mikey pauses, shrinking into himself a little. Raph knows why: Mikey went too far while he was scouting ahead. _Never get out of sight_, that's the rule. From the corner of his eye, he can see Leo drawing up, his shoulders tensing, ready to lay into Mikey — and then he sees Leo shove the urge to lecture away, and nod.

"Anything else? Noises, movement?" Leo asks.

Mikey shakes his head, just like Raph knew he would. Mikey's never what you'd call _organized_, but if there'd been any other clue, Mikey would've spit it out right away.

"Nothing, Leo. Just some old house, and then the light."

"And the smell," says Raph, before he knows he's talking. The others' gazes snap to him, and his headache gives him a bright little shock. He grits his teeth and folds his arms tighter, trying to ignore the cold seeping into his feet and up his legs.

"Smell?" says Leo, just as Mikey breaks in with "Ugh, like that smell at April's last week?"

Nobody talks. Usagi cocks his head, his nose wrinkled, but if he's got any questions, he doesn't say anything.

"Shit," says Raph. Mikey rubs his head, and Leo's shoulder tighten right back up.

"Raph, call Donnie. Tell him where we are and get the location of the nearest shelter. We'll check out the house, but we need to get warmed up first." When Raph doesn't move fast enough, his eyes narrow to slits. "Now, Raph."

He glares back, not missing how Usagi's head swivels like he's following a tennis match — he'd probably _love_ tennis, because Usagi's that kind of asshole — and digs his phone out of his belt. The display says it's just after three-thirty. They weren't out for more than twenty minutes.

Donnie picks up halfway through the second ring. "What?" He sounds almost like himself, all snotty because Raph interrupted some great and vital experiment. If Raph's headache weren't pressing against his eyes, he'd smile. "Raph? What is it? Are you guys okay?"

"Yeah, we're fine," says Raph. "Look, we're at the corner of Jameson and Bleecker. Got something we want to check out. Where's the nearest shelter again?"

Three years ago, Leo got a bug up his ass about safe spaces, and they spent a summer running around setting up supply caches all over the city — boltholes for when things got too hot and they had to go to ground for a day or so before heading back to the lair. It won't be the Ritz — not even an Econo Lodge — but there'll water, blankets, a first aid kit, canned beans or whatever. Good place to warm up, cool down, hide out if something's looking for them.

Something's _always_ looking for them.

"No dice, Raph," says Donnie, instantly. Probably didn't even have to check a map except the one in his head. "The nearest one got compromised about four months back. A couple Purple Dragons saw you and Mikey heading in. The next one's not for another sixteen blocks to the north." He pauses, then coughs. "Do you need help? I could —"

"Nope," Raph interrupts. "Don't even think about it. We're fine, we don't need your dumb ass here slowing us down."

Donnie huffs. Raph can almost _feel_ his eyes rolling. "You sure about that, Raph? I mean, you never call unless you _are_ in trouble, so —"

And there's the Donnie Raph knows and tolerates. "Goodbye, genius," he says, Donnie's annoyed squawk as he hangs up making him feel about eighty times better than when he woke up, even if it does make the headache go ice-pick sharp. That lasts until he realizes he didn't ask about Casey. He hasn't even thought about Casey since he opened his eyes.

_With April around, Casey's in better shape than I am_, he tells himself, swallowing hard as he turns back to Leo. "We're outta luck," he says, crossing the roof and keeping an eye on the buildings around them. Lots of places to hide. "Closest place is sixteen blocks north of here."

No unnecessary risks. That's the final rule. Whatever else is going on, they stop, they think things through. If they were fifteen again, they'd go leaping off without a plan, ready to hand out beatdowns to whatever they found. But they're older now, they've learned. Patience has kept them alive too many times to go shooting off now.

"We've lost twenty minutes," says Leo. The cold warps his voice — or maybe the headache does that, and Raph needs to force himself to focus on Leo's voice to make any sense of what his brother's saying. "If something's going on, we might have missed it."

He's asking them a question. Raph meets Mikey's eyes, not caring that he's shutting out Usagi. For tonight, he's part of the team, but he's not one of them. There should be three answers, not just two.

"Donnie'd tell us to wait," says Mikey, quietly.

He'll never admit it, but Raph's glad someone else spoke for Donnie. Doesn't mean Mikey isn't right. If Donnie were there, he'd be arguing for heading to the shelter, gathering intel —

Or maybe not. Maybe Donnie'd be mad enough to take the risk. He's not here to say so, though.

"If it's the Boar," says Raph, and there's the taste again, sour and burned-out. He hates this, magic and monsters. They've had enough already. "He'd want to know."

Leo breathes in through his nose. His eyes shutter closed for a moment, then he opens them and nods at Raph. Together, they turn to the west.

* * *

Donnie glares at his phone for exactly three seconds — Raph doesn't deserve more than that at present — then pushes it away and turns back to his microscope. He wants to focus, so badly his fingers twitch with it, but his mind keeps wandering. Five minutes, ten at the most, and then his thoughts scatter, breaking like a dropped mirror. He can see pieces of the whole: fractured images of his brothers' faces, a courtyard, red hair on grey stone, blood, April's open, empty mouth, but nothing _helpful_.

But as long as he talked to Raph, he felt almost whole. It had been so easy to slip back into rhythm with Raph: insult, riposte, someone hanging up while the other person was still mid-word. So normal, everything _organized_ and in its proper place. No mystery. No magic.

Research hasn't given him anything. Not because the tooth threw up some great magical defense when he tried to carve slivers from it, or vanished under his microscope. It yields bits of itself easily, and stays solid and strangely heavy whenever he touches it. As far as science is concerned, the tooth is just a carved piece of jade, without any life in it at all.

He turns the tooth over in his hands, careful of the still-sharp point. What had been the point of the warhounds? As somewhat literal shock troops, they had some effectiveness, but a good hit and they scattered. He remembers bits of them clinging to his bo, reeking as they melted away,

This offensive is the lowest common denominator — hurt his family and he'll crumble — and Donnie's _ashamed_, a deep, sick, rotted shame, that he fell for it.

It's too simple an attack. It's a feint, an opening move in a game Donnie doesn't know how to play. The shape of the board, the number of pieces, the end goal, none of it's clear. Whenever he thinks they've gotten somewhere — April finds a promising woodcut or scrap of Latin in some book she resurrected from the college library, a subtle vein gleams in the tooth when he increases the voltage surging through it — he feels something rising up to block him, some other will opposing his, sly and laughing. And then the woodcut is just a jumble of images, the Latin is a dirty joke, the gleam disappears.

The cynical, exhausted side of his personality — what other side does he have now, really? — whispers that it's possible these things made sense once, and then the Boar reached out its hand and poisoned them with a touch. Just beyond his lab, Donnie can sense borders shifting, angles drifting out of true, and he knows that one morning he'll wake up and see that the sun never rose and the constellations aren't any that he recognizes.

He punches his desk, hissing when his knuckles crack and the nerves in his hands go numb. Sensation comes back a second later, and the pain fades almost as quickly, but for an instant, Donnie feels _nothing. _Not hunger, which has been fighting a losing battle with exhaustion (which has been fighting a losing battle with caffeine), not worry, not the weight on his shoulders.

If the story is true, why was he chosen? He doesn't believe in myths. Sure, he believes in monsters, but that's because he's met them. He's fought them: the invaders with their shrieks and metal bodies, the black-clad, silent ninja, the humans who screamed when they saw his face, then turned on his family with knives and scalpels. Monsters don't live in fairy tales. They live over his head, and they rob convenience stores and beat their children and poison everything around them. Wars don't need to be fought because two _gods_ got it into their heads to fight it out and crush the world under their feet. Donnie's seen war, every day since he was fifteen — if he's completely accurate, he's been trained for one since he could stand. War is boring, it's almost never fought for a good reason, and if it starts out honorably, it ends with kids being sent to die doing their parents' dirty work.

_Why me? _he thinks. The tooth, jade-green, smooth, silent, doubles in his vision. He's so tired, and he can't stop asking. _Why me? I don't believe. And don't say it's because of that, because that's just a cop-out. Leo's the hero. Don't tell me he didn't want this. I'm not the one you want. _

There's no answer. He didn't expect one, but it might have been nice to know someone was listening.

Donnie puts his head in his hands. Maybe he should forget making that new pot of coffee, and go to bed. Raph might have the right idea. Just for an hour, he could close his eyes and block out all the questions tumbling through his head.

_Yeah. The second I lay down, I'll see…_

He doesn't finish the thought. He can barely look at April, barely talk to her, even though she's been inches away this whole week, shimmering with life. The memory of her pulse leaping under his thumb isn't any comfort. It doesn't matter that it was a trick; he believed it, and that's why he can't talk to her.

The Boar was right about one thing: he doesn't have a plan for her dying first, because he's never going to let it happen. To any of them. He'd find a way to get them all out, or he'd stay behind to cut the wire himself, and that would be…not fine, because he doesn't want to die, not for a long time, but it would be…right. Appropriate, maybe.

_What do you want from me? _He grinds the heels of his hands against his eyes. _I'm not the one you want. I don't even know what I'm supposed to do. _

His throat tightens, a thick swell of frustration and weariness choking off his air. No one's listening, no one's there. Donnie's alone, fumbling in the dark for an answer, scratching in the dirt for some sign. He's just a few steps away from trying to read signs in tea leaves and then what? Tarot cards? Bird entrails? How desperate will he get to find just one answer?

Donnie feels his mind spiraling downward, his gut plummeting. Peace in the particulars isn't possible; there's no particular he wants to see, or feel, or think about. He just wants quiet, an answer, sleep. Something safe. He wants…

A warm hand covers the back of his neck. The knuckles are callused, but the palm is smooth and soft-skinned. Long fingers, short nails. The pinky is slightly crooked, so it's the left hand, the one with a dark freckle on the inside of the wrist. A strong hand, capable of so much violence, but it's gentle now, just resting on the back of his neck, not moving.

"Donnie," says April. "Please, get some sleep." She asks him like she already knows he'll say no, quietly, but there's a note of hope, deep under her words.

He sighs, the air shuddering out of him, and tells himself she's here for the work, not for him. April hasn't come to his room since that one night last week. She's slept in her little alcove instead, hidden behind curtains and blankets, and they've worked in near-silence, him with his microscope and scalpels and electrodes, her with dusty books the size of her torso. He watches her, when she's not looking. Same as always.

Maybe, if he had asked — but no. There's no time for that hypothesis.

"I've got work to do," Donnie says, straightening up. He waits for her hand to fall away from his neck, for her to sigh and walk away, but she lingers unexpectedly, her hand moving in slow circles.

It feels so good. The simplicity of her hand seems like the answer to everything. Warmth and quiet and peace.

"Just a couple hours," she bargains, not quite wheedling. "I'll wake you up when the guys get back from patrol."

Donnie quashes his disappointment — stupid, _stupid_, to be disappointed when he already knew there was no chance — and shakes his head. "How's Casey?" he asks, waiting for her to call out the clumsy misdirection.

But April hesitates, her hand going still. "He's asleep now," she answers, her voice careful, a little rough. "Out like a light. The fever's gone down. He'll be okay till Raph gets home and takes over nanny duty." Her hand starts to move again, stroking his skin like it's something precious.

It'd be easy to see how far his hypothesis can carry him. He could just say, _I'll go to bed if you do too, and stay with me_, and read her answer in the way her face moves in the split-second after he asks. One test, and he can put this experiment away.

"Come on, Donnie," says April. "It can wait for a couple hours. Please."

It's the _please_ that makes him nod and stand up. His legs ache from being cramped under his desk for so long, and his shoulders won't quite straighten, but it's nothing a few hours of sleep won't cure. Given, of course, that he manages to get _any_ sleep at all.

April smiles up at him, her arms folded under her breasts. "Not so hard, was it?" she says. "Come on, time to sleep. I promise it'll help."

Donnie smiles back without saying anything. She's alive. Alive and wrapped in an old t-shirt that's fraying at the hem and sweatpants that used to be Casey's. But _alive_, and smiling at him.

"Just a couple hours," he says, wanting to wrap himself in that smile and sleep for a week, whatever the consequences. "Then it's —"

"Then we talk," April interrupts. "Not research. We _talk, _about what you saw."

Donnie shakes his head. No one's asked, no matter how badly they want to know. The closest anyone's gotten is lingering over him as he works, with their hands on his shoulder or bumping their hand to his as they bring him coffee and sandwiches that he picks at. How could he possibly explain it? _I saw you die for someone I don't know, Raph. I don't know where Leo or Mikey were, but they were gone. _

_You were fighting, but you had lost. _

_I wasn't there. _

"I let you have a week, but the martyr act is getting old," April says. Her voice is soft, but there's an edge in her gaze, a subtle _do not fight me on this_ warning that's so familiar Donnie can't help smiling. "You can keep hiding in here, not talking to anyone, but sooner or later your brothers are going to get tired of it. This story says you're the Champion, but we're in this with you. We can't afford to have secrets." The corner of her mouth quirks upward, not quite a smile, but she keeps talking before Donnie can question it. "So if you want to have that conversation with Raph, or Mikey —" Donnie grimaces on reflex, and April smiles — "fine, but at least I promise to be merciful."

"You?" Donnie says, feeling his own smile return to answer hers. "I didn't think you knew how." Teasing April is so familiar it could be a part of his body, one he knows as well as his shell or the heavy weight of his hands. He savors the echo of normalcy while it touches him.

April rolls her eyes, shakes her head. "_Bed_," she says, nudging him toward the door. "Want some tea, or toast? I was going to make some but — Donnie? What is it?"

Whether it's the new way the dim light hits her profile and turns her hair to ruddy gold that inspires him, or the realization that she's barely six inches away, Donnie doesn't know, and doesn't care. He watches as his hand rises, and as one finger brushes her bangs off her forehead. She stays very still, eyes huge and watchful. Donnie can only imagine what this looks like, after a week of no words and snatched glances. But April's always trusted him, even at his worst, her worst, and she trusts him now, enough to wait while he steadies himself with the smallest of touches.

_Test the hypothesis_, whispers an eager, thin voice in the back of his head. It sounds like he did at fifteen, like that eternally hopeful teenager is watching all of this from the dark spaces between his thoughts.

_Why not? In for a penny, _he agrees, pulse thundering, chasing away his exhaustion. Time's wasting. Why not be sure?

He reaches out and brushes his thumb against April's chin.

She doesn't move. She might even tilt her chin up to press into his touch.

_In for a pound._

"Sleep well, April," he says, and kisses her forehead.

The sound April makes is hard to quantify; it might be a sigh, or a little hum of pleasure, the kind of sound Donnie imagines people make when they see the ocean for the first time. When he straightens, her eyes are closed. He wants to linger and watch her face, but he forces himself to step around her and head toward the door. The next step has always been hers to take.

_Start walking. Don't get your hopes up. You're not that lucky._

"Donnie?"

His breath catches, but he doesn't turn around. He'll never know what her face looks like.

"Yeah?" he says, to the door.

Her hand touches his shoulder. Let her be quick, let her be kind, if she's going to leave. No more touches. He can't bear it.

"Want some company?"

Donnie frowns at the door, at his hand on the doorknob. "Thought you told me to go to bed," he says, trying for teasing to mask his confusion. What kind of question is that?

He jumps, a little, when the tips of April's fingers trace a line down his neck and over his shell.

"_Donnie_," she says, and it's all there in her voice, everything he's wanted to hear. But even when she says his name again, he's too afraid to turn around. He stays very still instead as her fingers follow the whorls on his shell.


	8. Part Three

Donnie's electric kettle is old, salvaged on a supply run and painstakingly repaired when he was sixteen. It's one of the few things he found, fixed, and kept, just for himself. He might have felt guilty about it, but April had already given them a new one for the kitchen that first Christmas, beaming when Splinter unwrapped it and hummed his approval.

This one, with the sealed crack in the plastic casing and the handmade heating coils, is all his, an old friend during all the nights he needed to stay awake but wasn't allowed to keep working in the lab. He's made thousands of cups of tea with the water it's boiled, but not once has he made tea for anyone but himself in it.

His bed creaks as April sits down. They haven't said a word since they left the lab, slipping hand-in-hand through the lair to his room, stopping once to check on Casey. April knelt beside the couch, frowning, with her free hand hovering over Casey's shoulder, but didn't touch him. A nod, and then they kept moving, still soundless, and his door shut with only the smallest _snick_ behind them. He lit the candles on his dresser, letting them spread a gentle, mellow glow up the walls while April waited near his bed, her hands fisted at her sides, her weight resting on one hip.

"Tea?" he'd asked, lifting the kettle as an excuse to watch her expression. She nodded, he rummaged for mugs and filled the kettle from the sink hidden in his closet, and that brought them here, to the subdued click of the kettle as it finishes boiling.

Donnie fills the least-chipped mug for April. His hands shake, so slightly no one but his brothers and April would notice, and he hopes the low light will hide the shiver.

When he turns to hand her the mug, the sight of her cuts through him: thin shoulders curved inward, her hair hiding her face, bare feet tucked under her. Idly, like he has all the time in the world to think about it, Donnie wonders what he noticed about her first, when he saw her ten years ago. It'd be a better story if he claimed he felt her before he saw her, a piece of his mind reaching out to hers and meeting halfway between the roof and street, but it's already so improbable that they're here at all that he doesn't want to consider the impossibilities too.

It wasn't her hair or eyes, none of what movies would have you expect. It was the way she walked, her spine like a sword blade, her shoulders unbent, her head high. Unafraid, smiling.

Of course, that had all changed moments later — if Raph and Leo had made him move on a little faster, he'd have missed her shout for help completely. She hadn't cried out, she had _shouted_. Even scared, she was brave.

Her hands are very small against his when she reaches up for her mug, and she curls around it with a grateful sigh.

"Thank you." She closes her eyes. "How did I not know you had a kettle in here?"

"Because you would have stolen it," he says, smiling as he inhales the fragrant steam.

"I would not!" April snaps, all wounded pride, a jagged streak of lightning cutting through the room. "I would have _borrowed_ it."

"Uh huh. If not that, then Mikey would have seen you use it, and then _he'd_ steal it. Either way, I'd be out one kettle." He sips his tea, carefully, and decides it's not strong enough. Their voices are light, their words easy, but they haven't looked at each other, and Donnie's still standing awkwardly in the middle of his room, unsure if he should sit next to April or at his desk. They were so close to _something_ in the lab, and he'd hoped the quiet would have followed them here, but this is the wrong kind of quiet.

_What now?_ Donnie thinks. _One of us has to say something. _

April — it had to be April — says, "Do you remember the first thing I said to you?"

"Uh," Donnie says, flummoxed. She hasn't looked up, and all he can see under her hair is the tip of her nose. "Help, I think?" He knows the answer, but he doesn't understand why, of all things, she chose to say this, and hedging might buy him time to figure it out.

"Not in your vicinity, but actual _words_, spoken _to you._" She sets her tea aside, untasted, and tucks her hands under her arms.

An honest answer nearly escapes before he can stop it: _you didn't really speak, you screamed_. He has a glimpse of where April is going with this, and the idea is dangerous, electric. One touch and he'll send off sparks.

April says, "I said, _okay, giant lizard thing._"

"_Turtle, actually_," Donnie replies, right on cue. The memory is still so clear: the gunfire, his brothers shouting, the sickly metallic small of the Kraang robots, April's bewilderment as she met his gaze for the second time. She hadn't been afraid then. Not of him, not anymore.

_(I'm Donatello. _

_April.) _

"You were there to save me and my dad, and I pretty much called you a monster." She shakes her head. "I was…a jerk."

"You were freaked out," says Donnie, completely sure now of where this is headed, so sure his voice breaks on the last word. "April, this was ten years ago. If I was mad about it, I'd have said something by now."

April tosses her hair out of her face with a short, imperative jerk of her head. "You may not be mad, but I should have apologized. I was awful to you, and —"

"And I was dumb and tried everything except talking to you to get you to notice me," he says. The words spill out of his mouth in a watery rush. Forget electricity; that's the closest he's coming to saying it, and he feels hot enough to set the room on fire. He swallows and sets his mug on his desk. It's too strong now, and soon it'll just be bitter.

There's a metaphor in there, somewhere, that he ignores. "It doesn't matter," he say, when he's sure he's not going to start babbling. _Keep_ babbling. "We made it this far without ruining anything. We're fine, April."

"Okay," she whispers. She stares at him, a thin line notched between her brows, then blows out a long breath.

If Donnie touches her now —

He doesn't think it through. He acts, kneeling in front of her and holding out his hands. "It's fine," he tells her. "April, I promise you, it's all fine. I'm not going anywhere."

"I just want you to know…" She pauses so long that the silence builds a cage around them. "I — whatever happens, Donnie, I'm not leaving you. We…we're…you're not alone in this."

She lifts her hands over his, and turns them palm-up. The dim light makes it hard to see the marks on her palms at first, and then the colors come into focus, and Donnie's first urge is to start laughing.

"You're kidding me," he says, just before the laughter bursts out of him. "You're _kidding _me. No."

There's a startled silence, completely distinct from the heavy quiet that filled the room moments before, then April blinks and start to laugh too.

"That's what I said," she chokes out between giggles. "I just — it's such a cliché. Who would come up with a story this terrible? Marks on hands and magic and — oh my god, it's everything you _hate_. Raph must be shitting himself."

Donnie shakes his head, still laughing. He knows they sound borderline hysterical; he expects Splinter to knock any second, or for Casey to yell at them to shut their holes. The thought makes him laugh harder, and some of the knotted, impossible tension in his chest is knocked loose at the sound. He's still as worn out as he was in the lab, but the laughter is melting the frustration away. April's right; the whole idea is ridiculous — but when has it _not_ been? Robot aliens from another dimension, ghosts, tiger assassins, ninja blood feuds. The Boar is just part of the parade.

The shared laughter reduces the threat, makes it into something manageable that can be packed away for the night and forgotten till the morning. April won't forget her promise to make Donnie talk, and he doesn't expect her to. Pleasantly, though, he finds he's not dreading it. Talking means a little more weight off his shell.

"Are we just…" April inhales shakily, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Are we just cosmically screwed, Donnie?"

He shifts position so his shell isn't cutting into his ankles any longer. "Sure seems like it."

April places her hands in his, and meets his gaze with huge, earnest eyes — too earnest, and Donnie starts cackling before she opens her mouth. "Then there's no one I'd rather be trapped in a horrible fairy tale with than you," she says, before losing it again herself.

_None of this is funny_, Donnie thinks, as their laughter wraps around itself, warm and giddy. The enemies are ridiculous, but they've always been real. The marks on April's hands aren't a joke; the courtyard and the cage weren't spat up by his subconscious. They can laugh now, and they should, because once they open the door to his room, the Boar's mad, empty smile will be waiting for them.

It's so sweet to not care about that for a little while. There's always a war; they'll be back to fighting this one soon enough.

"Your tea's cold," she says, when both of them have calmed down.

Donnie give her hands a last gentle squeeze and lets go, reluctantly. "So's yours. Want another cup?"

"No, thanks. I think I'm ready to go to sleep." The look she gives him through her lashes is soft, shy, and there she is, the first April he ever saw. She peers at him from ten years ago, tentative, curious. When he held out his hand to her on the street, she reached back. Donnie doesn't just remember this, he sees the moment as clearly as if it's happening in front of him again. Such a fragile moment, broken before it could begin — but he's carried it with him all these years because she _trusted_ him, even then.

Now he thinks that was when he knew that he was going to love her, if they made it through the night. They did, and so he did, and now they're here.

April is close enough for Donnie to see the faint lines already etched into the skin at her mouth and eyes. They did so much growing up together; almost half his life has been spent watching her, dreaming of her, and still there's so much he hasn't said. In all that time watching her, he's never actually told her the truth. He's come close so many times, but the right moment, or enough bravery, always eluded him.

There's no question this time. It's right, and he's brave. When he reaches up to stroke her hair, April leans her head into the touch and closes her eyes. His hand cups the curve of her skull, the weight of all that is _her_ cradled against his palm, and for the first time in his life, Donnie is terrified of what he feels. It can't be healthy, loving someone this much, but Donnie's baselines for _healthy_ or _normal_ have never been the expected. What gets the rest of the world through the day isn't what sustains him; he and his family have survived for decades on trash and the hope that tomorrow they won't be caught, or killed in battle, and so maybe this terrible love isn't eating him alive. Maybe it's made him better. Maybe, just maybe, it could give him a measure of peace.

Now or never.

"I was…" He pauses to steady his voice, and runs his hand through her hair to distract himself from the tremor in his gut. "I was in love with you for the longest time."

There. It's said.

April makes that tiny, pleased noise again, and tilts her head back to meet his eyes. "You said you _were,_" she says, as if the past tense matters. It's just semantics.

Donnie smiles, peaceful at last, his heart as light as cobwebs. "Some things never change, April."

"And some things do," says April.

Everything crystallizes; he can see every eyelash, the smallest fluctuations in her irises. The room gathers its breath around them, and in the perfect, complete silence, Donnie closes his eyes and kisses April.

She kisses him back.

In all his daydreams about this moment, a white-noise rush filled his head, like rain falling through grass, and light burst behind his eyes. None of that happens. April's mouth is warm under his, but that's the only thing he managed to guess correctly. The moment is so quiet, and so small, almost shy. How could it be anything else, after so long?

Donnie loves new things. He cherishes them, commits them to memory, where he can replay them long after they've become well-worn and familiar, and catch some echo of that sharp, unmistakable newness. But this kiss, and April's arms slipping so carefully around him to rest between his shell and neck, and the hummingbird rhythm of her heart against his plastron — these things are too immediate for him to memorize. They need him here, present and aware.

When they finally break apart, April is smiling.

"Took us long —" she begins to say, but Donnie surges forward, unable to lose one more chance to anything else. He knows he should be sorry for interrupting, and for taking without asking, but he knows it's fine. He's…allowed.

April's mouth opens as she gasps and laughs, and now Donnie feels everything: the sharp edge of her teeth, warm air leaving her mouth, the quick sweep of her tongue. Her arms tighten, pulling him closer, and that's fine, it's all fine, as long as he can keep kissing her she can move him however she wants. _April._ This is April pressed against him, and she tastes coffee and smells like apples, and there's too much in this moment for Donnie to ever memorize. All his inner voices — even the voice from ten years ago — fade into stunned silence.

The world seems to tilt; somehow he opens his eyes to find himself half-on, half-off his bed, with April underneath him and her fingers scratching at his shell. He tries to spare a thought for how that happened, but April murmurs something he doesn't catch and distracts him with a kiss under his eye. As he bends to kiss her again — _again_, he's kissing her _again, _a long slow roll of kisses, he's going to burst or laugh, he doesn't know which and he doesn't care — a quick twist of pain shoots through his thigh. He winces, and glances down to make sure he hasn't wrecked his stitches, but what he sees is himself, and April.

Her loose shirt and sweatpants hide the slender lines of her body, but there's nothing hiding him. Green skin, thick feet and hands, gouged, leathery plastron, and the heavy, heavy weight of his shell. He can't escape it; this is what he is, and a few kisses won't change that. Nothing will. What is he doing? He wasn't made for this, no matter how much he wants it. Every time he's tried to ignore that truth, it's always caught up to him. This won't be any different.

He starts to pull away, an apology ready and waiting at the back of his throat, but April moves quicker than he does. She doesn't let go as she rolls them, so he's flat on his shell and she has his arms pinned over his head.

"I —" he says, then waits for her to cut him off. She has a rebuttal for anything he could say ready, he can tell by the set of her mouth. But she stays quiet, her hands holding his arms in a lock he could break without effort. "April, you don't have to do this." She needs to know that. There's an out if she wants it, and he won't blame her for taking it. He had her, for a few minutes. It's more than he ever thought he would get, and he'd rather end it now, before anything can creep in and dilute the memory.

The flash of hurt on her face, there and gone, is impossible to miss. "I want to," April whispers. "I promise, Donnie."

He turns his head away. How can she? He's _this_. There's no change he can make that will alter this one, undeniable fact: he is a _what_, not a _who. _

April bites the inside of her cheek, hurt shifting into calculation. Donnie swallows, waiting for what she'll say next, and dreading it. He knows she wants to argue with him, but reason won't help. She'll say he's not a freak, that she wants to do this, and he can handle hearing that, but anything more might be comfort, and he won't be able to bear it.

She doesn't say anything; she hesitates, then her calculation gives way to smug satisfaction as she dips her head to kiss the side of his neck. Her mouth is almost hot on his skin, and he gasps, fingers curling around her hands as she kisses her way to the hollow of his throat.

"April —" he says, but loses his words when she starts working her way over his shoulder, her tongue flickering out to draw light patterns on his skin. She doesn't hurry; she lingers, each kiss slow, deliberately placed to best send shivers through his whole body as she moves up his arm.

He could move. It's obvious now that he'll have to be the one to call a stop to this, before it goes any farther and he wakes up humiliated and alone in the morning, but —

_Some things never change_, he told her.

_And some things do_.

They could have said it straight out, but this is better than a single sentence. April is writing what she feels on his skin, where it can sink into him and and live in his bones. He doesn't have to worry. He can close his eyes.

She takes his wraps off as she comes to them, leaving him bare under her mouth. Donnie stays as still as he can underneath her, but when she nestles her head under his jaw, she finds a rare ticklish spot — one nobody else has ever managed to exploit. He wriggles and hisses through his teeth, the curve of her smile hot against his skin.

"I'll have to remember that spot," she says, finally letting go of his hands and sitting up. She looks far too pleased with herself, and Donnie laughs, still fragile, but glowing at the promise under her words.

"You're evil, April."

"I'm thinking ninja," she says, primly, then bends down to kiss him.

He's almost ready for the warmth, and how soft she is; now he can focus on individual sensations, like how thin her shirt is, and how strong her legs are as she straddles him.

Oh. _Oh. _

And there's his second reason to panic, not even polite enough to wait till the first faded away. He wants her, of course he does, there's never been a time he hasn't, but it's too new. He needs time to parse this, he can't have everything right now — but he'd be an idiot to turn it all down, when he might not get it again. April pushed the anxiety away for a little while, but she's fighting a lifetime of being _Donnie_. He doesn't get to win, and April isn't a prize.

_Just keep kissing her till she stops kissing you_, he tells himself. Sooner or later, she'll stop, then he can figure out what happens next.

"I know you're worrying, Donnie." April rests her forehead on his. "You think I'll stop, right? Or leave?" Before he nods — _yes, I do, why wouldn't you — _she sighs. "This is going to take a while," she murmurs, more to herself than him.

"A while?" Donnie asks, unable to help himself.

"Convincing you," she says, simply, with another smug smile. "Good thing I'm patient."

Donnie barks a laugh. If there's anything April is _not_, it's patient. "Yeah, good thing," he echoes, smiling too.

"So we don't need to rush anything, right?" She slides off him without waiting for a response, and presses into his side. "We can just…keeping doing this."

Just like that, she's cut the legs out from under the anxious grind in his head, and the relief he feels is so far beyond love or gratitude that he can't speak. Donnie turns his head to look at her, and slowly, very slowly, lets his arm curl around her and pull her closer. "This?" he asks, just to be sure, just to be safe.

April comes easily, humming happily as she tucks herself against him. "Mhm. Just this." She kisses his shoulder, her fingers playing with the tails of his mask, and this time — just this one time — Donnie decides not to worry for a little while, and tilts her head up for another kiss.

* * *

There's nothing remarkable about the house Mikey leads them to, and the longer Leo stares, the more ordinary the house becomes. It's old, but not decrepit, and while it's definitely out of place, surrounded on all sides by abandoned apartment buildings, there's nothing unusual about it. No light, no smells, no strange flickers in the dark windows.

"That's it, dudes," whispers Mikey. "I was watching it from here, and it just _lit up_. No lie." There's a defensive echo deep down in his voice, that Leo hasn't heard since they were nineteen, an unspoken _you guys never listen to me_. "Green light, just like those dogs Donnie and Casey said they saw."

"Nothing else?" Leo asks. "Movement, noises?"

"Nope. Well, not that I saw — as soon as I saw that light, I beat feet back to you guys. Figured you'd wanna know." Mikey rolls his shoulders. "So, are we going in? 'Cause, one two three _not it._"

Leo hangs his head to hide his reluctant grin. Humor aside, he wishes Mikey had stuck around a little longer, just in case there was something between the light in the house and the burst that knocked them out, but the time for that reprimand is past. It's done, and Leo needs to work with what they have now.

_What do we have to work with? _

A double-handful of guesses, a half-remembered myth, and the memory of Donnie's haunted face in the kitchen. Leo breathes in, waiting to smell lilies, almost disappointed when he doesn't. Karai, at least, is an enemy he understands.

"What's we waiting for, Leo?" hisses Raph. "We don't have all night."

Leo glances over his shoulder. Raph's leashed belligerence is familiar, but it's not _recent_; Leo honestly can't remember the last time Raph sounded like this, a short fuse just waiting for fire. He sounds…young, in a way that creeps under Leo's shell and lodges there like a rock he can't shake loose.

He tries to tell himself that he's on edge from too many unanswered questions, too many vague shapes circling his perimeter, but that's not all of it. And it's not the Donnie-shaped hole in their decade-old shared dance, either; they adapt, and they've made room for Usagi. He feels Raph pushing him, and Mikey angling for reassurance, and he wants to scream that they're not sixteen anymore, and they don't have to act like this.

He knows he's hesitating, torn between taking a chance on learning something about their enemy, or trusting his gut and not walking into what is probably a trap. And he knows that even Raph at his most controlled will chafe at the delay, and Mikey will get distracted — but he can't focus on that right now. He's never met this enemy, only seen what it leaves behind.

When they strike, it must be _pure. _

"You're gonna think us right into sunrise, fearless leader. Are we gonna do this, or just sit here all night?"

Leo grits his teeth; Raph's voice hits the old, exposed nerves, but he keeps his eyes on the house. Spring the trap, or take the risk?

"Rash action is never wise," whispers Usagi. He's spent the last ten minutes crouched at Leo's side, eyes on the street. "Especially now, when our enemy is —"

"Oh my god," snaps Raph, sneering around the words. "Do you have to work to sound like that, or do you seriously have that much of a stick up your ass?"

Leo turns, embarrassment crackling over his skin. He flashes a quick, apologetic look in Usagi's direction — Usagi looks more surprised than offended, small mercy — and levels a glare at Raph. "Enough, Raph. We don't have time for you to act like a kid." He keeps his voice steady, neutral, because any show of anger will just ramp up Raph's temper, but his gut still twists in dismay. When was the last time he had to tell Raph to stop acting like a kid?

Better question: when was the last time he felt this sudden, furious urge to shove Raph up against a wall, and shout him down?

"But we've got time to stand here like a bunch of morons because you can't make up your mind, right, Leo?" Even with almost a foot's difference between them, Raph still plants his feet and stares up at Leo, the unspoken challenge glinting in his gaze.

"Guys —" Mikey tries to wedge himself between them. "Come on, not now." Raph pushes him back, not ungently, but Mikey still stumbles back with a bitten-off yelp. Usagi catches him before he can fall, and they watch Leo and Raph with wide eyes. Relief floods Leo; he won't have to take his eyes off Raph, who'll take advantage of any distraction when he's like this. Leo needs to make his point now, succinct and emphatic, but his own anger is spiraling upwards, responding to Raph's like it hasn't in —

_Cut it off. _

"We're not having this argument." Leo leans into Raph's space, shamelessly using his height to bear down on his brother. He doesn't yell, he doesn't blink. He measures his words, and speaks them very, very clearly. "You don't want to follow my lead? Then go back to the lair. Keep an eye on Casey. Help Donnie."

"Help Donnie," says Raph, as Leo turns away, and his voice is quiet — too quiet. Leo thinks of the quiet hiss of a snake before it bites. "Like you did?"

If Raph had thrown his words like grenades, they wouldn't have hurt as much as they do in Raph's vicious near-whisper. Leo freezes mid-step, the breath stung out of him, and turns slowly back to Raph, who looks stunned by his own words.

"Oh, god, Leo, I didn't mean —" Raph shakes his head. He looks like he can't believe the barb went so deep, but Leo can. After all, it's true. He _didn't_ help Donnie. Raph did.

"Are you in, Raph?" he asks, as his anger melts away, leaving only a whisper of shame behind it.

"I'm in," Raph says, like he's still bewildered by his anger. "Look, Leo, Usagi, I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that stuff. I just — my head's a mess, and —"

"Then be in," says Leo, and waits until Raph shuts his mouth and nods. He gives them — and himself — to a count of ten to shake it off before they move, and reaches for the peace waiting at the center of his mind. It's harder to touch, spread thin by worry, but if he doesn't put his hands to it, his brothers won't.

When he feels his senses expand, steadied by the sea-deep calm at his heart, Leo opens his eyes and climbs on the roof's ledge. No movement to the south, no movement to the east. The streets are clear; two blocks over, a car passes and he catches a snatch of music and lyrics: _…and your friends, baby, they treat you like a guest._ A plane passes overhead, an alarm blares a few buildings away. The city is just as ignorant as ever of them and of what spread through its sky, and for that, Leo is profoundly grateful. Let the city stay unaware of the nightmare unspooling in its streets. He and his family work better in the dark.

"Let's move."

_Be pure._ _Shake off the frustration with Raph and Mikey. Lead them. Be your best self, so they can too. _

He draws his katana as he leaps through the sweet winter air, and lands soundlessly on the street. The others land behind him, whispers of leather and steel as they draw their own weapons, and as one they turn to face the house. Whatever touched them on the roof, turned back the clock on their hearts, it's gone. There's only the house, and whatever rot lies within its walls.

"So your idiot brother didn't pass on my warning."

_Karai_.

She appears under a streetlight as her voice fades away, between one blink and the next. Her face is healed, pale and bloodless, her eyes glint amber in the night. And surrounding her like a shroud, the scent of lilies.

Leo says nothing. _Be a walled city. Be a mountain of fire. She can't reach you. _

"Hello, Leo," she says. Her voice is moonlight reflecting off the blade of a knife. "Where's Donatello? Or did you decide to upgrade to mammals?"

Leo sees Usagi's hand shift on the hilt of his blade, and shakes his head without turning. No moves until he knows she's alone. Karai smiles, no joy, no humor, just a colorless curve of her lips, but her smile doesn't hide a brief flash of confusion clouding her features. She recovers almost instantly, but Leo stores the tell away, to use later.

"So the Bull has a sense of humor," she says. She begins to move as she talks, slow, deliberate steps across the roof. Mikey and Raph draw their weapons and drop into fighting crouches, but she ignores them. Her eyes are fixed on Leo, and he hates himself for not being able to look away from her face. "It chose Donatello? What a joke. Doesn't it know _you're_ the hero?"

The words are Karai's, but her voice is dead, no sneer or edge in it at all. Something happened to her, between the last, desperate moment between them a week ago and now; an essential part of her is gone. Leo forces himself to breathe, even though her scent fills him, chokes him, and smiles back, all teeth. She thought he was the Champion. He can work with that.

"The Boar didn't tell you?" He keeps his voice as cold as the night air around them. "I didn't think that information would be need-to-know, Karai. What happened?"

She flinches. For Karai, any tell is a surprise, but he's cut through to something real, and for an instant true pain shows on her face. Leo feels a savage, unfamiliar satisfaction; he could cut her again, and again, and like it, and never feel a second's guilt.

_Be pure_, he warns himself, before he can be tempted, and waits for her reply.

"It tells me what I need to know," she says. She stops walking a few feet away from him, her arms loose at her sides. "That's more than the Bull will do for your brother. He's going to have to figure it all out on his own. I almost pity him."

"You don't even know how," spits Raph, edging toward Karai. Leo holds out an arm to keep him back, but Karai just lets out another dry, nasty laugh, unconcerned.

"Pity's a waste of time. I gave you a warning — I guess even that was too much for you to handle, Raphael." She turns her smile back on Leo, Raph forgotten. But Leo knows her face, and even if he's never seen Karai honest, he's seen her caught off guard, and he knows she's not as confident as she seems. She's been broken.

The thought stirs something like grief in him. He hates her, he's seconds away from falling on her and tearing her apart, but she used to be so much more than this. She was almost a queen, years ago.

Leo loved her once, as much as she let him.

"What happened?" he asks.

"Dude, what are you _doing_?" hisses Mikey. "Why are we still talking to her?"

"An excellent question," says Usagi, quiet but furious. "She deserves nothing, Leonardo. End her and be done."

Karai laughs. "He could try," she says. "But I'm not here to fight any of you. I'm on an errand." She walks through their line, almost close enough to brush her shoulder against Leo's. The smell of lilies tries to stir panic thick as mud from deep in his soul: the gunshot crack as his shell split under Rahzar's foot, the flechettes opening him up, rich and red, the smell of his own blood and oh god he had swallowed a tooth hadn't he —

_Be pure._ Leo drives the panic down; he didn't survive that terror only to lose to it now. He will defeat it, like any other enemy. For his family, for his pride, and for the child he used to be.

"I asked you a question, Karai."

She turns blank eyes on him. "I told you," she says. "The Boar eats."

The implications shiver in the air between them. His first thought is _I could have helped you_, but he crushes it, ruthlessly. He can't save someone who's bent on destruction, who wants nothing but burned cities behind them, and he can't save Karai, now or ever. There never was anything worth the effort in her.

It's time to leave. As he gives the nod to the others — _scatter, run, regroup at the nearest shelter _— Karai turns her back on him, facing the house. But she's not silent; Leo pauses on the point of running to listen.

"Did you ever wonder where so many of the freaks went, after the Shredder died?" Karai asks. "Not all of them died in the fire. Some of them tried to run. Not a wise move. This one, though. He decided to trade up. He's smart." A low rumble shakes the house, something far below the foundation rolling over, breaking free. "But you already knew that, didn't you? He's an old friend." She draws a thin, ragged strip of black fabric from her tunic pocket, and lets the ends flutter in the slight breeze.

"Leo," says Raph. "She's got his mask." The rising, reed-thin note in his voice sends a warning pulse up Leo's spine — but all he can do is take a step closer, and be a wall between his family and harm.

"All sorts of old friends will be waking up soon," says Karai, ignoring Raph completely. "The Boar hid them all over the city. I think it's been saving them for you." She looks at Leo, shrugs one-shouldered. "You should have run a week ago, Leo."

"We don't run. "He tightens his hands on his katana and takes a step back closer to the others. He'll lead them through this, even if it breaks him to do it.

Karai shrugs again. "It probably wouldn't do you much good," she says, facing the house again. The next time she speaks, it's not to Leo, but to what waits inside. "Time to wake up, freak."

The walls of the house give a brief, glass-sharp shriek of protest before the front wall shatters outward, green light flashing far back in the darkness.

Raph swears, and his fury is a thick groundswell behind Leo, filling the street — but this is fury Leo can use, direct and balance.

The dark shape crawls out of the wreckage on all fours, head low to the ground. Leo tastes bile, remembers the heavy arm arcing toward him. They could run, should run — but this is a weapon they handed the Boar themselves, when they didn't finish the job the first time. It's got to end now.

Slash sniffs the air, his head low between his shoulders. Leo knows the exact moment he catches their scent: a lazy smile curls his mouth, and he spreads his arms wide.

"Now!" Leo yells. Karai forgotten, he runs, a savage spark of joy igniting in his chest as the others follow him. This, finally, is an enemy he knows.


	9. Part Four

**A/N: **Forgive my hand-wavey science - if the show can get away with it, so can I!

* * *

It takes Leo four steps — four steps at a run, four steps with strides as long as his legs allow — to feel the rhythm of the fight slip away from him. That quickly, and it's gone.

He keeps running. There's nothing else he can do; an arrow could change its course more easily than he could. Feinting left or right would leave one of his brothers unprotected, and stopping would bottleneck them, jammed together and vulnerable to the same blow. No, he has to keep running, has to keep his feet hitting the pavement. If he stops, they fall.

Knowing that doesn't keep him from hearing how Usagi's footsteps are just that half-beat out of time with his brothers', with his own. They don't need Usagi, they need Donnie. He needs Donnie two steps behind him, Donnie's shadow falling over his shoulders. It's always been the four of them at the core of every battle, four sets of hands and eyes connected through that pulse. One heartbeat, four bodies.

Crossing the street takes ten steps, ten steps that spread themselves out over an hour, a day — long enough for Leo to feel Donnie's absence, and to hear Raph yelling wordlessly on his right. He has enough time to see Mikey's nunchuks blur through the air, enough time to smell the air leaking out of the shattered house, cold and rotted, like a dead winter forest.

He even has enough time to lock eyes with Slash and to wince as his third lid scrapes down over his eyes. Then Slash roars again, and Leo swings his left arm in his first stroke as the buildings around them shake.

_Why is it no one ever wakes up? _he thinks. _No one hears _anything_ in this city. _

Leo's swing takes him into Slash's range. He misses when Slash twists to the left and grabs for Leo's leg, but he didn't want to hit Slash. That's Raph and Mikey's job, and as soon as Leo spins out of the way, letting his katana direct and balance him as he moves, they swarm up through the space where he used to be, white-eyed and massive. It doesn't matter that Raph's almost a foot shorter than Mikey; they pummel Slash on both sides of his head with the handles of their weapons, the blows meant to deafen and disorient long enough for Donnie to move in and —

Donnie's not there.

Usagi is. And Usagi hesitates, eyes narrowed in calculation, long enough for Slash to find his balance and to see Usagi. Long enough for Slash to smile.

_He almost killed Donnie, _Leo told Usagi, just after the last time they saw Slash, a hulking shadow diving underwater. How many years ago was it? Seven? Eight? _He beat Mikey into the roof in front of Raph. If he ever shows up again…_

Leo had shrugged, and let his silence speak for him as he poured another cup for each of them. He should have said more, because Slash's return is no longer conditional.

"No!" The cry leaves him the instant Slash raises his arm, and Usagi throws himself to the right — clumsily, yes, but the movement carries him under Slash's arm and out of reach. Leo swallows, a hard metallic taste dripping down his throat, and charges.

This time, Slash is ready for him. Their moves have changed; they fight _together_ now, but Slash sat in the dojo every day after Raph rescued him from the trash and watched them, memorized how they fought alone and against each other. Leo knows Slash has forgotten nothing.

It hurts like hell when Slash's fist collides with his plastron, and for five seconds, his vision goes white and he can't breathe, and his pulse pounds in his ears. He manages to keep hold of his katana, thank God — he'll take any victory now, large or small.

When his vision clears, the first thing Leo sees is Karai, standing apart, the breeze tossing her hair and the black mask in her hand.

_I don't think you're as good as you think you are. _

_Watch me prove you wrong_, he thinks, and heaves himself off the ground. So they don't have Donnie, so Slash is back. It's just one more fight, and they haven't failed yet.

What he needs is a plan.

"Usagi!" he yells, sliding his katana back into their sheaths. "On me!"

His friend obeys without question, placing himself at Leo's back. Maybe later Leo will be able to enjoy the fact that Usagi is taking his lead, but that all depends on whether or not they survive. The fight hasn't begun yet, not really.

The sound of his voice makes Slash turn his head, ponderously slow. Leo isn't fooled; he knows that Slash can move like a lightning strike, but it's tempting to think of him like a mountain, as slow as centuries. Slash's smile is slow too, a crack in an old foundation.

"Still like giving orders," he rasps. When Mikey leaps at him, nunchuks spinning, Slash bats him away without looking. Leo winces as Mikey hits the ground shell-first, but his brother bounces up almost right away — favoring his left side a little, but steady. "Always know what's best, don't you, Leonardo?" Still smiling, Slash sniffs the air. "Where's Donatello? Didn't want to come out for another beatdown?"

Leo bites down on the hot words fighting to get out of his mouth. He feels Usagi at his back, and on the other side of Slash, he sees Raph next to Mikey, both of them white-eyed and ready.

Slash shifts from foot to foot. "You've gotten better," he says. "How long's it been, five years? Got all kinds of new moves."

"Try seven years," Raph bites out. "Seven years you slept down there waiting to get called like a _dog_. Man, what'd the Boar offer you? Eternal life as its _pet?_"

Slash flinches, a tiny gesture made monstrous by the size of his shoulders, and rounds on Raph, nails extending to claws. Leo catches Raph's eye and nods. _Keep going. Keep him focused_.

"I knew a good deal when I saw one," Slash says. "The Boar offered me —"

"What, good dental?" Raph spins his sai. "Too bad your retirement plan _sucks_."

Leo shudders as Slash chuckles and shakes his head. "You should see what happened to the ones who said no," he says. "Like Stockman. Like _Xever_."

At the corner of Leo's vision, Karai touches her stomach, a small, lost movement.

Leo doesn't care. Now's the moment.

He runs full-out, legs pumping, cold air in his face, right into Slash's reach. This time Slash's fist is an open hand, each finger tipped with flechette-sharp claws —

_don't think about that don't think about it don't _

— and yes, they open his skin just as easily, a new gouge for each arm because at the last minute he holds them up to protect his face. Slash roars again, delighted, hungry for blood, the sound so familiar Leo isn't sure for a moment if he's twenty-five or fifteen. And it doesn't matter, because the pain is the same when Slash's other arm slams into his plastron again, and sends him flying across the road.

He doesn't white out this time; the pain of the impact and in his arms keeps him aware, and that's good. Good because he isn't sure how badly he's bleeding yet, and good because now he gets to see his plan.

Slash forgot about Usagi, forgot about Mikey, forgot everything but his bone-deep instincts to fight Leo and listen to Raph. All those years watching them bred that into Slash, made their fight part of his soul. And if he and Raph are still going to be at odds, even now, Leo's going to use that.

Raph kicks one of Slash's feet out from under him, then rams Slash in the side — it doesn't knock Slash over, but it gives Mikey the chance to loop his kusarigama chain around Slash's neck and yank his head back, baring his throat. And Usagi moves like water, perfect thought, perfect form, keeping Slash off-balance as Raph crouches to jump, ready for the killing blow.

The sound of someone clapping freezes them all in place. Leo looks around, suddenly aware of his pulse spiking and the thick taste of blood in his mouth, but Karai stands as still as she did a few moments ago, her hand still on her belly. No one moves.

No one, of course, except the woman clapping at the end of the street.

She keeps clapping as she walks toward them, each beat from her hands in time with her steps. Her smile is wide and gentle under a heavy fall of black hair so long it trails the ground behind her, and her robe is white. White as snow, white as bone, white as the teeth of her smile.

Leo pushes himself to his feet, an absurd compulsion telling him that he has to face this threat standing — because this is a threat, one aimed straight at the heart of his family, and even if he's covered in blood, he will still stand against it.

_I am fire on the mountain_, he tells himself, and reaches back for his katana as he walks to block the Boar's path.

It pauses mid-step, then plants its feet flat on the ground and faces him. Just like Donnie said, it wears the shape of a beautiful woman, velvety skin and silky black hair, but it's not a woman. Leo can't afford to think of it as one, or be fooled by its grace, not when all he feels is the disdain rolling off the Boar and sweeping toward him, the faint amusement, the contempt. It would crack him between its teeth as soon as look at him, and if it's not doing so now, that's only because it has some other purpose.

Leo's read the story. He knows what the Boar does.

The Boar eats.

"Such a brave one," it purrs, taking one step closer. Leo smells it, jasmine and ash. "Always the bulwark, always the firm wall. But you, sweet boy, are not the one I want." It cranes its head, searching behind him, its smile turning into a sneer as it sees Mikey and Raph. "Where is he?" it asks. "Where is the Champion?"

Leo smiles back. "I'd be happy to give him a message," he says. "But for now, you have to deal with me."

The Boar's smile slips for an instant, like melted wax sliding down a wall. What Leo sees behind it is nothing he can name, not teeth or blood or even bone, more like a forest than a true face, but not like a forest at all. It's —

He shakes away the thought, and by the time he looks back into the Boar's face, the smile is back in place, and dark eyes gleam at him through its hair.

"No message," it says. "But my dear boy, my dear Leonardo, why was it not you? So strong, so brave and so very young, it should have been _you_ that faced me. Your brother cannot, but here you stand, here you face me."

He and his brothers are no strangers to evil; they've faced monsters in too many forms to count. Of all the monsters, only Kraang Prime came close to the creature that stands in front of him, smiling, close enough to touch. Kraang Prime hated him, and thought he was small, a pest to be eradicated — but it never radiated this casual malevolence.

Hate comes so easily to the Boar, and it smiles so easily too — and why shouldn't it? Leo knows any resistance he can offer is a joke, because what good are blades against a god? And what good is he?

He's not the Champion.

Beneath the pounding of his heart, Leo's surprised to find his feet steady on the pavement, and his hands firm on his katana. He's comfortable here, a lonely candle burning against the whole of the night sky. One flame is all that's needed to open the way for light, though, and as long as he holds, Raph and Mikey will too. Even now, as the Boar takes one more step, Leo hears Mikey tighten the chain around Slash's neck, Raph brace his feet to hold more of Slash's weight; in the quiet center of his mind, far from fear or doubt, he listens to Usagi shift, and feels the warm blood drip from the wounds on his arms.

He's not the Champion, but he's still their leader. He will not move.

"Do you think to protect him from me?" asks the Boar, in its whisper-sweet voice. The moonlight on its skin is loving, the curves of its cheeks gleaming like pearls as it smiles wider. "I do not wish him harm, so long as he —"

"So long as he signs up," Leo says, childish pleasure filling him as the Boar blinks. Mikey's head jerks up, white eyes wide at Leo's interruption, and Leo finds it in himself to smile. _Oh yes, I dare. _

"He serves, we live. Old news." Defiance is so easy, after fighting in the dark all these years. All they have to lose is their lives, same as always, but that doesn't mean their lives are cheaply given. If Leo falls — if his family falls — then it's nothing less than what they've signed up for. But Leo knows now how to read his opponents, and god or not, the Boar isn't here to kill them. If death had been on its mind, it would have crushed them by now. It's here to take their measure, and to scare them. "You won't get what you want," he says, his pulse so heavy his tongue is clumsy with it. "Donnie won't break. _We_ won't break."

He throws the refusal onto the street between them, all too aware of how pitiful it sounds. And he knows how he looks, a monster standing in front of a beautiful woman, steel glinting in his hands. There are stories about this, too, and anyone watching would think he and his family are the villains, the ones who eat.

The Boar licks its lips, its tongue a hot fever-red against the white of its skin.

"You say that," it says. "But he will break, or he will die. There is nothing else for him, not in this game, no matter how brave you all are. It is the way of the game, eat or be eaten. Which will he be?"

The words _He'll be Donnie_ are in Leo's mouth, but they crumble and fade when the Boar reaches out with a long-fingered hand, and brushes its fingers against the scars on his arm.

"I know what you are, Leonardo," the Boar tells him.

He tenses, ready for the pain his muscles still carry to wake. And it _does_ wake, the slick, biting, _cold_ pain of the Shredder's flechettes, singing with the new pain in his shoulders and plastron — but the Boar, he realizes as the pain crests and he bites his tongue to hold in a cry, isn't interested in his pain. Pain is just a path to what it really wants.

His humiliation.

That follows the pain, a hot flare of it igniting along his spine. _Humiliation_. The laughter as he tried to scream threats through a swollen mouth, how easily Rahzar bent back his fingers, how quiet the cracks of breaking bone, how he howled at them to leave his family alone, and how the laughter rose at that and broke over him in a flensing wave.

"There are so many ways to break, so many cracks already," says the Boar, so gently its voice is almost a song. "Pain is one way, yes, oh _yes_, brave one, but so is _this_."

Its eyes, sloe-dark, meet Leo's as he struggles to breathe and find his center. _Pain is a reaction, trap it in your body. Be the fire on the mountain. _If he breaks, Raph breaks, and Mikey breaks, and then Slash is free, and they —

"Did you tell your brothers you wet yourself in the dark while you cried?" the Boar asks. The song in its voice mocks him, and this is the one humiliation he can't bear, that he was _dirty_ and couldn't fight. Leo swallows, shoves the pain and humiliation down. They are not him. They do not define him.

"You shut your mouth!" Raph shouts, as Usagi lets out a disgusted, furious cry.

_No_, Leo wails silently, as the Boar's hand falls from his arm and its gaze falls on Raph. _Don't fall for it, Raph — _

"Small and angry and _afraid_," the Boar spits out, its smile never slipping. "Afraid of yourself, of all you feel, afraid of being left behind, oh, yes, yes, you are, _boy_, for you are the only one they could do without. If you died, the scar between them would heal, and they would learn to laugh again and they would _forget you_."

Raph's inarticulate, rage-choked cry fills the street, and Leo hears the words beneath it, clear as if Raph had shouted them: _it's not true it's not don't say it it's not true please don't let it be true_. He has seconds before Raph's control shatters, and whatever hope they had for getting out of here alive is gone.

"Hold!" he shouts, his voice finding its way past the pain still thrumming through his arms —

_cold metal opened me up and all I smelled was blood and I did I pissed myself but that was done to me and it isn't me _this_ is me _

_— _with all his force behind it, all his _will_. He is their leader, his voice is their ultimate authority. And Raph, pivoting to face the Boar, Slash forgotten, freezes in place. He shakes with barely harnessed fury, his fists clenched and his teeth bared, but he holds.

_I've got one chance at this_, Leo thinks, as the Boar's head swivels back to him. He thought of the Boar as another opponent to fight, but it's not something he can fight, not now. The Boar is a predator, hungry and full of teeth, and if he's not the Champion, then he's just prey.

Prey _evades_.

_Raph is going to hate this. _Leo hates it too, leaving a weapon like Slash in the Boar's hands, but in the balance, his family's lives matter more. They can deal with Slash later.

He hopes.

"If you're done," Leo says to the Boar, carefully, calmly. He must be deliberate now, not fire on the mountain but ice, a glacier, ancient and deliberate. "Then we'll be going."

Karai — oh, god, he had forgotten Karai — makes a strangled noise that might be a laugh. The Boar's gaze flicks to her, giving Leo a precious second to school his face and steady his hands. When it looks back to him, he smiles. Wide and red, and full of teeth.

"Enjoy your new pet," he says, with a nod back toward Slash. "Sorry he's second-hand, but I think he's got a few good years left in him."

Slash snarls, lunging for Leo, but the Boar raises one hand and the snarl twists into a whine. From ten feet away, Leo can feel Usagi and Mikey's bewilderment, and Raph's frustration — and it's Raph who breaks the silence, just as Leo expected.

"Are you serious — what the hell are you doing, Leo? We don't walk away —"

"We're leaving," Leo says, without looking at Raph. He'll explain later, when they're safe, but he needs Raph to obey, for just a few minutes more. "Stand down." When Raph doesn't move, Leo tears his eyes from the Boar long enough to glare at his brother. "Stand _down_, Raph."

The Boar watches him, silent, no longer smiling. There's a horrible, thoughtful cast to its features, and the pearly glow is gone from its cheeks. Now its face is a death mask, waxy and heavy.

"I'm sure we'll see you again," Leo says lightly, letting his smile fade. "Let's move!"

His last words, directed not at the Boar but his family, are sharp, chips of ice flung into the air. He sheaths his katana and turns from the Boar, like there isn't blood on his plastron, like every movement doesn't hurt him.

_Don't look like prey_, he tells himself. _Don't run. _

Mikey is the first to obey; he slides off Slash's back to the ground, the long chain disappearing as he folds his nunchuks into his belt; then Usagi, one eyebrow crooked as he sheaths his blade. That leaves Raph — snarling, immovable Raph, who'll never leave a fight unless he's dragged away, or dead.

Leo doesn't have time for the first option, and he won't even consider the second. Raph will always fight him on this, always, till the day they're both dust. No matter how much he shouts or begs, Raph will dig in his heels — especially now, especially because of Slash.

_Don't look like prey. _

"With or without you, Raph," he calls, carelessly, without looking over his shoulder. He knows the look on Raph's face, how the third lid will slide away to leave the hurt unveiled in Raph's eyes. _I'm sorry_, Leo begs, knowing he has to hurt Raph, and use his brother's fear to get him out alive. _I'm so sorry. Please understand. _

He takes the first step away, feeling the Boar's eyes on him. Watching, hungry, waiting for him to pause before it falls on him.

One step. Two. Mikey and Usagi fall in behind him. If they have questions, they know better to ask them now — but Raph's footsteps don't follow.

_Come on, Raph_. One misstep, and they're dead. Blood on the streets.

Three steps, four.

Leo's control is vast, a keen blade he's honed his entire life, but it cracks when Raph's steps don't echo behind him. He can't do this, he can't leave Raph behind. It's only been three seconds, barely any time at all, but without Raph, they're all dead. It's always been all or nothing. Family or death.

Raph growls. Leo's next step nearly falters as relief burns through him. He knows that sound: capitulation, and the promise of a fight later. He'll take it. It means Raph is with him, and he can get them out alive.

Slash hisses something when they reach the end of the street, the words bitten off by another sharp whine, and Leo knows, with iron-forged certainty, that the Boar won't chase them down. They don't look like prey; they aren't running, they aren't afraid.

Not that it can see, at least, and sometimes the appearance is all that's needed.

The closest shelter is to the north. He'll explain there, and pay what's owed for what he did to Raph.

But they'll be safe. They'll be alive.

This trick won't work again. Leo takes a deep breath as they turn the corner, and counts the footsteps behind him.

One, two, three.

Time to run.

* * *

Donnie doesn't wake either time April gets up to go check on Casey, though whenever she slips back into bed, he curls around her, murmuring. If he's actually saying anything, she can't make it out. So she lets him cling, and nestles as close as she can before she dozes off again.

As far as Casey's concerned, last night's _episode_ might as well have never happened. His low fever has broken, and he grumbles at her and bats her hands away whenever she touches his forehead. April wishes she'd focused through her panic and touched his mind, to be sure it's gone, but that chance has passed — no point in hating herself for it now.

She did, a little, as she brushed the hair off his forehead and made sure the water glass on the table was full. Casey's mind felt like it always did: warm, loud, a lived-in and cluttered house, the smells of pine and wax and ice. But something else moved through those cluttered rooms, and made his head its home for a few minutes.

The Boar.

Now the smell of jasmine haunts her, and the palms of her hands are marked. Yet again, she's been set apart as _special_.

_Donnie would say that I've always been special_, she thinks sleepily, turning to rest her chin on his plastron. He's still asleep, mouth open, arms and legs loose under the covers, and there's nothing about being here in his bed that doesn't feel familiar, or safe, or right. His body is a cool, solid weight under hers; his hand rests gently on her hip. Protective, but not possessive.

She rubs his plastron over the slight curve of his belly. It's ten in the morning, according to Donnie's bedside clock; on a normal day, Donnie would already have been up for four hours and halfway through his second pot of coffee. He deserves more sleep — by the rings under his eyes, a week of sleep wouldn't be a bad start — but they need to talk, and she wants to know why Leo and the rest aren't home yet.

Her twisting to reach Donnie's t-phone wakes him when nothing else would; he opens his eyes, and starts to reach for her before he catches himself and lets his arm fall back to the bed.

April makes herself smile. She knew this wouldn't be easy, and there's no one to blame for that but her. "Hey you," she says, holding out his phone and pressing close to him again. "They're not back yet. Should we worry?"

"Uh," says Donnie, taking his phone without looking away from her. "I talked to Raph last night. He asked about shelters, and…" His voice fades off as he turns his attention to his t-phone, frowning slightly. She strokes his forehead while he reads, careful to keep her touch light, but she feels him hesitate before he finishes his thought. "They stayed out too late, so they're crashing at a shelter for the day. They'll be back tonight. Nothing to worry about, but Leo wants everyone home to talk when they get back."

"And we're not on lockdown?"

Donnie shrugs, his eyes on the ceiling. "Kind of a moot point, with the three of us like this. We're not going anywhere." He hasn't moved away from her, but he hasn't gotten any closer either.

_Dammit, Donnie. _April strangles the impulse to touch his mind. She can sense confusion and longing in equal measure, and quiet disbelief. Her fingers keep their careful movements on his forehead, willing away his confusion, waiting out his disbelief.

The longing, at least, she has a cure for. As soon as Donnie sets his phone aside, she wraps an arm around his shoulders and kisses his cheek. "Did you sleep well?" she asks, her mouth close to his skin. Donnie shivers, but she recognizes the movement. It's not a _bad_ shiver, not by any means.

"Pretty well," he says. He picks at his blanket, a determined edge to his frown, and April aches, knowing what he'll say, hating that it's the first thing that comes to his mind. "April, you —"

"I want to be here," she interrupts, as gently as she can. "I'll say it as many times as you need to hear it. But Donnie, do _you_ want me here?"

That gets him looking at her, determination crowded out by incredulity. "You have to ask?"

"It's important," she tells him, one eyebrow arched, "to be _accurate_. A very smart person once told me that. More than once, actually. Pretty much every day since I've known him."

Donnie sputters, torn between indignation and laughter, and while he's deciding, April tugs his head down and kisses him. It's not her best kiss by any stretch, not the kind Donnie deserves. She's still learning how to fit their mouths together, but the learning curve is too pleasant for her to mind the challenge. Especially when Donnie kisses the way he does, all his focus poured into her after a slight start of surprise. That much attention, that much concentration, is a heady thing — and a little terrifying. There's so much love in everything he does, from the way he adjusts the arm wrapped around her to how he slept with himself between her and the door. There always has been. When she was sixteen, it scared her.

Now, at twenty-six, she understands.

Somehow, she ends up on her back again, with Donnie hovering over her, supported on his elbows. She wants to pull him closer, and forget their half-healed bodies, he's heavy and so big, so steady, and she wants as much of him as she can get. His kisses — slow kisses, gentle, exploring kisses that make her forget to breathe — aren't enough.

Eyes closed, she breaks away to catch her breath. _He'll blame himself if I pass out_, she thinks, nonsensically, almost laughing_. _Before she can kiss him again, Donnie nuzzles into the curve of her neck, his mouth hot against her sleep-warm skin.

"_Oh_," she breathes. This is…unexpected, but Donnie is _thorough_, making his deliberate way up the column of her throat with light kisses and just a heart-stopping hint of his tongue — an imitation of her own little trick from the night before. It's been so long since she was touched like this, so very long, that every touch of his mouth sends a tiny jolt through her.

No, that's not right. She hasn't been touched like this before, not once in her life. Not with this much care, or such intimacy; Donnie knows her body, Donnie trusts her body. It may not be conscious knowledge, just something that evolved from so many years fighting at each other's side, but when he presses his mouth to the thin skin just under her ear, it seems like something he's already done a thousand times before.

Not that it stops April from letting out another breath, one that — if she's honest — sounds more like a moan than a sigh.

Donnie goes very still, then lifts his head. His eyes are as warm as his mouth, pupils wide — and he's doing a terrible job of not looking pleased with himself. "I thought you said we didn't have to rush anything, April," he says.

She strangles a new urge — this time, the urge to actually strangle him — and laughs, a unfamiliar, throaty sound. "Did I? I'm an idiot."

He kisses her again, almost before the words are out of her mouth. They have to talk, soon, if not _now_, but April lets the kiss linger. She's finally got the trick of how her mouth fits against his, and a true scientist always makes sure she can replicate her results.

* * *

After Donnie's bedroom, the kitchen is too bright. It's no cooler than the rest of the lair, but April shivers until she gets her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. She sips it slowly as Donnie talks, not moving or speaking as he tells his side of the story.

It doesn't take long. Donnie doesn't want to tell it, no more than April wants to tell her side, but he doesn't waste time or words. He's concise, almost brutally so, considering that he's talking about the Boar playing around in his head and turning nightmares into weapons. There's only one moment when his voice falters — _I couldn't get to you in time. I know it wasn't real but — I couldn't save you — _and April doesn't try to fill his brief silence. She just reaches across the table and slips her hand into his, and lets him squeeze.

The thought of her own dead body doesn't bother her. It's the violation of Donnie's thoughts that leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. Casey's too, if that was the Boar as well — and April's intuition tells her it was. She knows what it's like to have control stolen from you. It's her life's story, that theft replayed over and over, and she'll gladly murder — yes, _murder_ — anyone who tries the same thing with her family.

She wrestles her anger down, where it can stay banked low for when she needs it. As long as she has an ember left, she can light a fire from that, and burn out her enemies. But not now, not when she still has her story to tell.

It takes even less time than Donnie's: the quiet lab, the bent, shuffling figure, the other Donnie's old grief and bitter refusal. She leaves out her memory of his hands; there's so little she can do to protect Donnie, but she can do this: she can be the only one who remembers the broken, graceless fingers, so similar to the ones she's clinging to now.

She's pathetically grateful that they had a few hours of quiet together before they had this conversation. No, more than grateful; relieved, too. At least he slept, at least he _knows_ now. If she had waited, nothing she could say would breach the guilt Donnie's retreated behind. It's not just guilt, it's contempt for himself, for what he thinks he's failed to do.

April flinches as a bright pinch of anxiety snaps at her mind. He'll knot himself around his guilt and his failures and it won't matter that they're not real, that he hasn't failed anyone. As long as Donnie thinks he has, he'll stay slope-shouldered and dark-eyed, and he won't let her help him.

Donnie toys with the sugar bowl with his free hand, his coffee untouched in front of him. "So you saw me," he says. None of the roil in his mind comes through in his voice. April bites the inside of her cheek as self-recrimination fills her. He's so good at hiding the outward signs that she got used to not looking deeper.

_Lazy, April, lazy. _

"I'm sorry," he adds, the slightest pause following his words before he pushes ahead. "You shouldn't have had to see that, you're not…" He shrugs, and hunches further into his shell.

There's already enough guilt at this table for both of them. She's had enough time to feel bad. As good as it feels to finally talk to Donnie about what's hurt him, he's still carrying all the weight. He won't give it up willingly, because Donnie thinks he deserves it, every ounce — but April is a kunoichi, and she knows what to do: not misdirection, but _redirection. _

"Do you think it's a possible future, then?" she asks. She runs her thumb over his knuckles, watching through her lashes as the guilt in his gaze is slowly displaced by consideration. "Or some other universe? Like with the Kraang, but this universe is —"

"Just a few decisions off from our own?" Donnie frowns, his eyes focusing near her left ear.

April ducks her head to hide a smile. Give Donnie a problem to solve, and he'll spend everything he has to find an answer, even the energy he's using to beat himself up.

She lets go of his hand — Donnie needs an undistracted moment — and gets up to refill their mugs. By the time she gets back to the table, favoring her leg as she sits down, Donnie is shaking his head.

"Whatever it is, it's not the immediate problem." He leans his chin on his hand and sips his coffee without seeming like he's tasted it at all. "Assuming all this is true — which is a big, _big_ assumption — we're still fighting this without any effective weapons. We don't even know what the endgame is, or the time table." One finger starts to tap on the table. "Too many conditionals."

"We've got the myth," says April over her mug. Donnie nods distractedly, and she keeps going. "We've got the visions, for lack of a better term, we've got the tooth, and we've got these." She lifts her left hand, where the white slash still marks her skin.

They should have had this conversation a week ago, the morning the myth came crashing through their lives. Instead they've been working side-by-side, but not together. This is where Donnie needs her, as his safety net. She doesn't have his facility for connecting the dots; if she's a genius, it's a practical, methodical kind of genius, an earthquake to Donnie's lightning. He illuminates, she unearths.

Ten years of facing the Kraang and the Foot didn't prepare them for this. How do you fight a myth?

The sleepy Catholic in her head and the not-so-sleepy Irishwoman have answers for that: _with holy water and silver, with swords from the bottoms of lakes and cups filled with blood, with salt and sage burned along windowsills and turning shifts inside out and Cold Iron and crossing running water and with bowls of milk and honey laid out under the moon. _

All of which Donnie will reject, because Donnie is stubborn and Donnie has his pride, and if he can't find a solution through science, he sure as hell won't take one from faith.

"It's barely anything to go on," Donnie murmurs, calling April out of her musing. His finger keeps tapping the table. "But if what we saw really is another universe, or even a possible future, then we need to see it again."

"What?" April leans back, bewildered. "How the hell would we do that? Ask the Boar to — oh. Wow. The portal." The science involved is beyond her, time and space folding in on themselves in grotesque, painful shapes, but _Donnie_ understands it, and more importantly, he understands the predictor algorithms for tracking where a portal will open up.

Where, and _when. _

"Oh my God, Donnie," she whispers. "That's brilliant. Even for you, that's _brilliant._" She leans across the table and kisses him, a quick brush of her lips that barely muffles his surprised gasp. "Sorry. I just…had to do that. Carry on."

Donnie beams at her, his cheeks red. "Uh, well…it's not much to go on, but — but as far as hypotheses go, we've had worse ones. I can set search parameters for biometrics that match current patterns, then we can exclude strings that don't match up with these events. It'll be a lot of work, but we can narrow the possible matches and find —"

"— find the strings where there's a Boar, and extrapolate the precipitating events," April interrupts in a rush, her mind racing. Part of her squirms at the thought of using Kraang technology, and there's no doubt there's a monstrous amount of work ahead of them, work that may be for nothing if this hypothesis fails. The sight of Donnie smiling, his eyes bright with hope and his whole body taut with barely restrained interest, though, makes all of that worthwhile. "We can see what went wrong. Bypass failed attempts — find something that _works_."

"Exactly," says Donnie. "It's a big if, but I'm game if you are." He looks down at their joined hands, his flush flooding back.

April pulls her fingers out of his, then slips around the table to stand in front of him, and loop her arms around his neck. He only hesitates for a moment before lightly resting his hands on her waist, eyes wide and not quite believing.

"I'm game," she says. "Let's get to work."

* * *

**_Elsewhen. _**

"We lost three more people overnight," Alice tells Leonardo. He doesn't interrupt or look her way, so she takes that as permission to keep talking. "No signs of illness or injury, they just didn't wake up. We'll cremate them when the sun sets. There's a rabbi who'll say a few words. Casey thought it'd be nice if —"

"Do you ever think about them?" Leonardo asks. He sets his cup of tea to the side and folds his hands in his lap. "Donnie and April?"

It's shitty beyond words to be glad that he's nearly blind, but that means he can't see her grimace. _Not this again. _Mike's visits always make Leonardo ask this question, and she's sick of answering it. "There's a lot more to brief you on," she says. "And then I've got patrol schedules to rework, and then I have to go make sure Casey isn't playing martyr — _again_ — and then I have to make sure Raphael and Mike aren't screaming at each other in front of everyone, and _then_ I have to figure out the move south. I don't have _time_ to think about anything, Leonardo. I have too much to do."

"That's not an answer, Alice," he says, shifting in his seat to face her. "Do you ever —"

What he wants to know is if she still mourns them as ceaselessly as everyone else, if there's still a hole torn out of her that's never filled in with scar tissue. What kind of daughter would she be if there wasn't?

Alice is a terrible daughter. She doesn't mourn them, not in any acceptable way. Their memories are the last bright things she has left in her life, and if she takes them out too often, they'll decay and then she won't have anything. This world is dying, it's all smoke and poisoned ground, and one day soon the Shredder will find them and call down the warhounds, and then they'll be food for the beast.

She knows the story.

When that day comes, she wants those memories real enough so her parents feel alive again, for just a little while.

"I can't, Leonardo," she says. "If I did, I'd be ready to give up."

That gets a smile out of Leonardo, a smile brighter than she's seen in years, since the cage.

_Don't think about that. Keep that out of your head. _

"And you won't give up," he says, reaching out unerringly to squeeze her shoulder. "They wouldn't either."

Alice closes her eyes, just in time to block out all but one memory: her mother staring out across the dead fields, her jaw set.

_"He'll come back if he can,"_ _said April. "Even if he doesn't, we don't stop fighting. Promise me."_

_"I promise_," _Alice said. _

She's kept that promise, even though they're gone, even though they're never coming back. She doesn't think of them, but she holds that close to her heart, closer every day.

"I've got work to do," she says, opening her eyes and pulling away from Leonardo's hand. "Get some sleep."

He sighs as she leaves, but doesn't try to stop her. She's just as stubborn as her parents, after all.


	10. Interlude: Upon What Soil They Fed

**Note:** This Interlude bridges the events of Part Four and (the upcoming) Part Five of Gates of Summer.

* * *

The last thing Angel wants to do after class is take care of Gran's stupid pigeons, but as soon as she sits down and turns on the TV, Gran pins her with a _do this or else _look, and Angel stomps up the stairs, muttering every swear word she knows.

When she pushes open the door to the roof, the pigeons coo and warble softly in her direction before turning back to their feed. Forty years ago, Gran used to have champion pigeons — whatever that means — and she never got out of the habit of raising them. But she can't take the stairs all the time, so now it's Angel's job to take care of them. They've got plenty of food, and plenty of water, and the chicken wire around their coop is whole and undamaged.

"You damn pigeons are fine," she mutters, working her fingers through the wire to stroke a soft head. "You don't even know what the hell's going on, do you?"

The pigeons coo, and warble, and go back to eating. Angel sighs, shivering as the cold breeze cuts through her sweater, and walks to the edge of the roof. So the freaks aren't really freaks, but _friends_. Angel's not sure how to feel about that, or the fact that one of these _friends_ has been visiting Gran on the sly — and getting Gran's _food._ But Gran said they were good guys, and Gran's never been wrong before.

They might be good guys, Angel thinks, kicking a loose stone over the edge, but she saw their weapons. Swords, some weird stuff she's seen in movies — serious hardware. Good guys or not, they were ready for a fight. And if they're friends with Gran, it means their fight is in Angel's neighborhood. Exactly the _opposite_ of what Angel wants. She can handle guys who throw beer cans at kids playing when they drive past, she can handle the guys trying to take over the playground, but not this. Not _monsters_. Gran's all she's got; if anything happens to her, what then?

"Dammit," she says. The breeze carries her voice away, up toward the lowering storm clouds. It's going to rain all night. Again. "God_dammit_. I can't do this."

"What if you could?"

Angel forces herself not to jump. She turns around, slow and easy, with her hands jammed in her pockets. Don't looked scared, you don't get hassled. It's the first rule.

A man is standing next to the coop, with one of the pigeons cupped between his hands. He smiles down at the pigeon. "Lovely creatures," he says, lifting the bird slightly. "So delicate, so fragile, but they can always find their way home." A wrinkled thumb strokes the pigeon's head. Angel tenses, ready for his hands to twist and a limp pile of feathers to fall to the gravel, but he keeps petting the bird, smiling. "I envy them," he says. "They are not free, but they are…certain. I miss that. Certainty. It seems I only ever see the better choice, long after I have chosen poorly."

"I think they're kind of useless," Angel says, to cover how her knees are shaking. Her voice carries well in the chilly air, like she isn't scared at all. But she is, she's _freaked_. She'd feel better if she had her sticks, but they're nine flights down, and the man's between her and the door. "They're just stupid birds."

The man laughs, and gently eases the pigeon back into the coop. "Everything can be useful," he says, then turns to face her. "You will not need any weapons," he adds. "I have a favor to ask, that is all."

Angel shudders; one side of the man's face is caved in, the eye gone, and a deep scar runs over his bald scalp. "Ah," he says. "Yes. It is…unpleasant to look at. I apologize. I do not have the energy to spare to repair the damage at present."

"Who the hell are you?" she whispers. Weird light and monsters. She imagines Gran just four flights down, making dinner, and swallows. "What do you want?"

"I want you to carry a message." The man spreads his hands wide, knobby fingers splayed in the cold air. He's only wearing a shapeless grey robe, like Padre Mendoza wears, but he doesn't seem to care about the cold.

"You carry it," Angel snaps, and tightens her hands into fists. Two, maybe three good hits, that's all she'll get. She's small, but she's fast. She just hopes that's enough.

"Carry the message," he says, his calm voice stopping her just before she runs for the stairs. "And I will tell you how to keep your grandmother safe."

When Angel was in middle school, she and her friends found a poem way in the back of their English textbook. It was long, but she remembers a few of the lines, even now.

_We must not look at goblin men _

_We must not buy their fruits _

_Who knows upon what soil they fed _

_Their hungry thirsty roots? _

"Get the hell off my roof," she snarls, and runs for the door.

The man is there before her hand reaches the handle, between one blink and the next. Angel skids on the gravel underfoot, stopping just before she touches him. Up close, he smells like dirt, but she forgets the smell when she sees his one eye. It's black, black as the tar the city spreads on her street every summer, shining like an oil slick.

"Please," he says. "She must hear what I have to say, you must do this —"

"So call her!" Angel backs away, ready to stoop for a handful of gravel. It's not much, but it'll do. "Go to her house, talk to her, it's not my problem!"

"I cannot reach her," he says, spreading his hands again, his voice low and pleading. "One message, please, there is no more time. Just carry my words to her ears. That is all I ask." He goes quiet, his ruined face blank, his hands still out-stretched. Every line of his body says _please_, and against her better judgment — but not against her intuition — Angel feels her resistance fading.

She hasn't lived this long in this neighborhood without knowing who to trust; it's the one thing she's never done wrong. Whatever's happening, monsters and light and strange men on her rooftop, she's never trusted the wrong person. "Fine," she says, her hands still knotted into fists. She's not stupid. "You tell me how to take care of Gran, I'll be your messenger service. Who's it for?"

The man smiles, a sweet, just-this-side-of-crazy smile. "April O'Neil," he says.


	11. Part Five

"No good news?" Donnie asks, pushing his goggles onto his forehead. He reaches for a mug he knows is empty while he waits for April's reply, hoping it'll have magically refilled when he wasn't looking.

"Well, at least it's not _bad_ news," she says, frowning at her laptop and chewing a thumbnail. "It's the power source that's the problem. Before, we used portals that were already operational, or we had keys that contained enough of a charge to restart one. Now, we're starting cold, and we're not just moving spatially, but temporally."

"How much power are we talking about?" He spins his chair around the desk until his shoulder bumps hers, a little shiver of pleasure flowing over his skin as she leans a little closer. "Oh. Damn."

"A hell of a lot more than a car battery, that's for sure." April bites down on her thumbnail, and Donnie hears the tiny, muffled crack as the nail breaks. She yanks her hand away, huffing, when he tries to check her fingers. "Donnie, I'm fine. Really."

_Please indulge me,_ he thinks, but lets go reluctantly. Rationally, he knows she's not frustrated with _him_, but with whatever can't be solved immediately, with a few blunt blows from her intellect. Still — his stomach is cold, and now his hands are too. "Sorry." He shifts back in his chair, puts careful inches between them.

April pauses. "No," she says. "That was — I'm being a jerk." She swings her chair around till her knees touch his. "I'm sorry."

He shrugs. "It's okay. Guess I shouldn't have put you in charge of the math, huh?"

"Or maybe I shouldn't take it out on you." She leans forward, her movements quick and easy — she's almost healed — and kisses him lightly. "You can tell me when I'm being a brat, Donnie."

"Then I'd never st—" he says, then chokes on the words when April arches an eyebrow, smirking at him. "I mean —"

"Oh please, don't tell me you're going to get all soft now," she says. "Don't hold back on the trash talk just because…"

_Because what?_ he thinks, hoping that she'll name what they are now. But he doesn't ask, only watches her face.

She shrugs with her good shoulder, her smirk melting into a smile. "You're smart," she says airily. "I'm sure you can fill in the blank."

Of course he can, but he wants to hear it in her voice. The sharp prick of disappointment disappears as soon as he feels it, though, because April slips her hand into his and squeezes. "Because I can do this, now," she says, and kisses him again, her mouth moving slowly against his.

Donnie can count on both hands the times he's forgotten about a project when it's sitting right in front of him. Twice for when Mikey reached for the mutagen, once for Raph hauling a bleeding, half-conscious Mikey into the lab. Three times, and now it's four. He doesn't forget for long, but April's mouth is warm, and so is the hand that covers the side of his neck.

"Don't worry," she whispers when she pulls away, leaving him stunned and silent. "I'm not going to try and kiss my way out of bad behavior."

"Why not?" he blurts out, then flushes when she laughs. "I mean, it'd be…effective."

"I don't abuse my power," she says, kicking him in the leg as he laughs. "Okay, point taken. I won't abuse it with _you_."

"A benevolent despot," he says, warmed by the implied future in what she's saying. He shakes himself, and makes himself focus back on April's laptop. "But we should —"

"— get back to work, right." April sighs. She turns back to her laptop too, but she doesn't let go of his hand. "Just to get the portal up and running, we're going to need two point one megajoules. City employees or not, they're going to notice if we try and pull that from the grid."

"Yeah." Donnie leans forward to scan April's work — all correct. "Kind of hard to miss when it's lights out for Manhattan — what? What is it?"

April coughs, a bad attempt at hiding what Donnie knows was a giggle. "Nothing, it's just — you do this thing with your tongue when you're thinking. I just — it's distracting."

There is something very wrong with Donnie, because in spite of the past week and all the horrors still lurking in the back of his head, the thought of April being distracted by his _tongue_ briefly overpowers everything else. The shiver of pleasure returns, and he hears himself, ten years younger, crowing at the top of his lungs: _she thinks I'm cute! She thinks_ —

It hurts to slam the door on that voice, but it's a temporary pain. They have work to do. Everything else — pride and distractions both — can come later.

"So that's the power needed to get the portal _open_," April says, flicking her fingers at her screen. "You're still working on the algorithms to figure out how far we need to go, but…" She starts to lift her thumb to her mouth, but Donnie rescues her hand before she can bite the cracked nail again. "But we don't just have to _open_ the portal, we have to _keep_ it open while we find the right string, which means we'll be consuming at _least _one megajoule per second, even if we find — Donnie?"

Oh. He's staring. Now it's his turn to flush and look away, embarrassed. She laughs, a sly, knowing note, and it's that sound as much as her hand on his cheek that drives the vast weight of what they're trying to do back. He can almost think of this fight like any other, like it's just a rough fight, rather than what it is.

_And what's that, Donnie_? he thinks, as April runs her reddened thumb under his eye. _Oh, just the end of the world. But by all means, go ahead, get distracted. Someone else will pick up the slack. _

"April, I —" He swallows, barely stopping himself from nuzzling into her touch. It's all so new — no, a better word is _overwhelming_. A precise word is _intoxicating_. He could forget everything and let April kiss him again. Or he could just listen to her talk about science until the world ends, because then at least he'd die happy. "We should focus."

"I _was_ focusing, until a certain turtle let himself get distracted." She pulls her hand away. "Bad timing," she says. "Maybe this —"

Her next words already echo in his head: _maybe this isn't a good idea._

"Maybe this is not the best working arrangement," she says. "Because we're zero for two as far as _not_ getting distracted goes."

It takes Donnie a moment to hear her reply for what it is, rather than what he thinks it is. "You're not — oh." He shudders with thin, keen humiliation. _Idiot. You don't deserve this._

April's face shifts from teasing to dismayed; too late, Donnie realizes she's felt everything he feels, from plummeting expectancy to humiliation. So he turns back to the piles of circuitry in front of his computer, and tugs his goggles over his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, reaching for his soldering iron. "I'll just — do this — oh, dammit." The iron slips out of his cold hand and clatters to the floor. The iron is probably broken, which means one more thing to fix, one more thing he didn't get right, one more reason to lie awake and stare at his ceiling tonight.

When he ducks down to pick up the iron, April is already there, kneeling down in front of him. "It's okay," she says, picking up the iron and holding it out. "It's not broken."

"That makes one of us," he says dully, without thinking.

"Oh. Donnie." Her voice is a whisper. She doesn't touch him, but she hovers at the edge of his space, all warmth and bright colors. "No, you're not."

"I'm not what we need," he says, his heart skidding in his chest. "This idea, it's all I've got, April. I don't know what else to do, there's no rule book for this thing. It's just — it's a bad joke, that's what this is. And what if this doesn't work? Then I've failed _everyone_ this time. What if I can't fix it?"

"Donnie, breathe." April covers his fists with her hands, peering up at him from where she still kneels on the floor. "Come on, breathe."

He hadn't realized how fast and shallow his breathing had become, but now he can hear the high, weak rattle in every exhale. It's too much. He sat in this lab and watched April die, and then he saw Raph dead too and what can he do against something that can get into his _head_?

How stupid of him, to think one night's rest would be able to drive this clutching terror back. He should have known better; he can give everything he has and still never be good enough, and still never win.

One night doesn't change anything. He closes his eyes

"Donnie, _breathe._" April's voice comes from a long way away. The Boar is between them, between him and everyone else, and he doesn't know how to find his way to the other side. No portal can take him where he needs to go. "Please, just try and breathe slowly."

He closes his eyes, his throat closing to a pinhole.

"One," says April, still far away. One hand tugs away his goggles, then settles back on his fist. "Two, three, five."

_Seven,_ Donnie thinks automatically, under the clutch of panic.

"Seven, eleven, thirteen. Seventeen, nineteen, twenty-three. Twenty-nine, thirty-one, thirty-three."

"Thirty-seven," he chokes out, gasping. "You should know better."

"I really should." April squeezes his fists. "Forty-one, forty-three, forty-seven. Fifty…" The prime numbers roll out of her mouth, a line plumbing the depths of his panic. All Donnie has to do is grab the line, and let her pull him back to the surface.

"One hundred thirty-five…"

Donnie forces his eyes open and stares down at April, who looks back calmly, all innocence. "You're not messing up prime numbers for my benefit, are you?" he says in a rough, clotted voice. "I don't know if that's sweet or sad, April."

She stands, running her hands up his arms until she reaches his shoulders, then squeezes. "I'm going with _sweet_, if that's okay with you," she says. Her fingers dig into his shoulders, working at the rigid knots in his muscles.

"It's okay to be freaked out," she says a moment later. Donnie jerks upright — he'd been too busy focusing on the too-painful-to-be-pleasurable relief spreading from her fingers to notice that he had almost, _almost_, let his head rest on her chest.

"Sorry."

"Shh." She pulls him back as he starts to move away, her thumbs pressing into the sore, tight muscles along his collarbone. "Just focusing on breathing. It can wait for five minutes."

"No, April," he says, panic rising again, full of sharp teeth. "It can't. There's too much to do." When she ignores him, her hands not pausing, he starts to stand up.

She makes a dark, frustrated noise deep in her throat. "Dammit, Donnie, do I have to sit on you to get you to hold still?"

"I'll be fine. I'll —"

April hipchecks him back into his chair, and drops into his lap. "Huh," is all he can say as April raises her eyebrows, smiling her _your move now_, _slick_ smile. The panic is still there, but arrested in mid-beat, and while his heart is still pounding, it's for an entirely different set of reasons.

Other than using her weight to keep him in his seat — not that it would really deter him, if he wanted to get up — April doesn't touch him. She waits, and watches, until his brain reboots and he tentatively wraps an arm around her shoulders. Even then she doesn't touch him, but her body is pliant and warm against his. Donnie buries his face in the crook of her neck and finally, finally, takes a deep, wracking breath.

"It's a good plan," she says. Her throat buzzes softly against his cheek as she speaks. "And we can refine it. We can do this."

"It's still all we've got." Donnie shuts his eyes. Three hours ago, this had seemed like salvation: a plan, a goal. He always does best when he has something concrete to work towards. But it's not enough. He's just guessing. "I wish —"

April rests her cheek on the top of his head. Her hair spills over his face in a sweet-smelling, heavy mass, and oh, he wants to stay like this, and let the slow amazement that he has her at all fill him until there's no room for anything else.

He's not that selfish, and more importantly, he's not that lucky.

"It's more than we had yesterday." April nestles closer when he starts to shift, somehow avoiding putting her weight on his stitches. "I mean, yesterday, we were chasing ourselves in circles. Then you got six hours of sleep, and now we have a plan. What'll you do after a shower and actual food?"

Donnie laughs in spite of himself, and wraps his other arm around her. "Don't push it," he says. "I don't know if my body can handle anything other than pizza or coffee at this point."

"I think it's worth an experiment. We've been at this for hours. Let's see what's left over from the great grannie smorgasbord." April doesn't move, and Donnie doesn't try to make her. If he turns his head slightly to the right, he could kiss the hollow of her throat.

"April," he says. Why not tell her now? There's no better time for her to hear what he's wanted to say for so long. It's how he can thank her. "I want you to know, that I…that you're…"

She holds her breath, her only movement the slow leap of her pulse against his cheek.

"…that I —"

"You two are just _adorable_," says Casey, because this is Donnie's life, and no matter how lucky he is, Casey will be waiting to gleefully shit all over any happiness he's managed to find.

"Oh good," April says. "Casey's awake."

"I could change that," Donnie offers, still hiding under her hair. "Very quickly."

April smothers her laugh against the top of his head, kissing him lightly before twisting around to look at Casey, who's lounging against the door of the lab, smirking.

He's pale, a little unsteady on his feet, but if Donnie had any lasting worries about his recovery, that damn smirk banishes them. "I'm feeling great, thanks for asking," Casey says. "Now what are you crazy kids up to? Remember, leave space for the Lord."

"The only space I'll leave will be —" Donnie says, glaring across the lab at Casey, thinking of six ways to wipe the smirk off Casey's face. Before he can finish, April smoothly overrides him, in a honey-sweet, poisonous voice that makes the smirk slip a few notches.

"We're actually just taking a break," she says, sliding off Donnie's lap but brushing his shoulder with her fingertips as she moves. "We could get you up to speed over some breakfast, if you're up to eating?"

"Hell yeah, I could eat." Casey scratches at his bandage, grimacing.

"Don't scratch it," Donnie says, pushing out of his chair and following April as she slips past Casey. "Come on, Casey. Self-control."

"Not in my wheelhouse, Big D." Casey punches Donnie lightly in the arm, then jerks his head at April's retreating back. "Things are good?" he asks, in a low, serious voice.

_Things_ are not good, but that isn't what Casey's asking. Donnie swallows hard, the unspoken words lodged in his throat, and nods. "We're good," he says. "We're…really good."

Casey grins, his exhausted face lighting up with honest happiness for a second, then punches Donnie in the arm again — a real punch this time, one that'll almost leave a bruise. "Let's eat! Where's that short dumbass, anyways?" he yells, then heads toward the kitchen, leaving Donnie to follow, shaking his head, but smiling.

* * *

Casey lets April bully him toward a stool without a complaint. If they want to do all the work, he's fine with that.

"Should we make something for Splinter?" April asks, squatting in front of the fridge. "There's not much breakfast food left, but we have plenty of noodles."

"I'll throw some in a bowl for when he wakes up," Donnie replies. "Pass me the gravy?"

April's phone goes off the same time the microwave does, which means the kitchen is filled with beeps for a solid ten seconds before April and Donnie manage to maneuver themselves into position. And because they're _nerds_, they're laughing and blushing and trying to act like Casey didn't see them draped all over each other five minutes ago in the lab.

Casey Jones is a _saint_ and no one can take that from him, because he doesn't make all the comments he wants to about April being environmentally friendly — because she's _gone green, get it?_ — and because he only winks at her once when she hands him a plate. She gives him one of her death-laser looks, but underneath it she's smiling. Good. There's enough weird bullshit going around. Sometimes it's just nice to see someone you care about happy.

"Oh." April's smile slips away. Over by the stove, Donnie goes still, and Casey puts his glass back down. They share a look — and yeah, maybe it's weird, the way he and Donnie know what's gone wrong, and with who, just by the way April says that one word. But this is the one thing they've always agreed on, him and Donnie: April does not deal with her shit alone. It worked that way when he was with April, it worked that way while April figured herself out, and it's going to work that way now. Donnie's gotta lead on his own now, though.

"April?" Donnie takes a couple steps closer, not reaching out as April turns to him and holds up her phone. "Is everything all right?"

Casey watches April's face go through a whole storm of emotions: anger, fear, exhaustion, and then empty resignation. It's the last one that worries him, and makes him even more sure of what's going down.

"It's Dr. Mackimmie," she says. "I've…I've got to take this."

"Reception's best in my lab," Donnie says, then steps out of her way as she leaves the kitchen. She touches his arm as she passes, just a quick little touch, but Donnie doesn't hesitate to touch her back, the way he would have a month ago — hell, even a week ago. Casey smirks at the kitchen table. For _ninjas_, they've always been terrible at hiding this shit.

"So," he says, just to watch Donnie tense, ready for the third degree. He pauses to let the nerd squirm a little longer, then settles back in his chair and tries to ignore the steady itch under the bandage. "They stayed out all night?"

Donnie relaxes with a small sigh. "Yeah. They'll text when they're on their way back. I'm surprised Raph hasn't texted you."

Casey isn't. Raph's last words as he left for patrol had been _turn off your phone, I'm not gonna bug you, so keep your skinny ass on the couch and get some sleep_, so the lack of a heads-up doesn't bother him. "Eh. As long as someone knows. Nothing weird happened last night, did it? I mean, other than you and Red finally…?"

So maybe he's not a saint.

Donnie draws himself up to his full height and glares down at Casey. "That's none of your business." He's trying to be cool, but Donnie could never _not _be a smug bastard when things go his way, so there's a huge smile just trying to find a home on his face. "Why do you care anyways?"

"Every month you guys dick around, I owe Jenny another twenty bucks." Casey grins when Donnie squawks. "I know the path of true love is never smooth and all that, but you couldn't have moved a little faster? I'm gonna be broke as it is."

Donnie doesn't bother trying to come up with a good comeback. He turns back to the stove and the microwave, muttering under his breath as he fixes plates. Casey fiddles with his silverware and tries not to scratch, thinking of April's face the moment her phone rang.

"Maybe we should —" Casey starts, but Donnie cuts him off with a sharp shake of his head. _What the hell do you know, nerd, _wants to come out of his mouth, but he sits on it. Donnie's right. Donnie's always right when it comes to this.

"Has she talked to you about it?" Casey asks instead. "About her dad?"

Donnie shakes his head again. "Not really. She's been trying to get a hold of Dr. Mackimmie all week, but I guess there hasn't been a change in her dad in over a month. He doesn't even know —" Donnie clenches his hands into fists, then releases them with a sigh.

So Kirby doesn't even know April fell. That's what Donnie doesn't say. Maybe Casey really isn't anywhere near a saint, but he's glad Kirby's so out of it, because it means April doesn't have to worry about her dad losing it over the latest disaster. Small mercies, you know?

Donnie shoves a plate of mashed potatoes and gravy toward him. "Start eating. I'm going to keep reheating."

"You need to eat too," Casey says. "Got to get your vitamins. You're a growing boy."

"And you're Cro-Magnon Man. Shut up and eat."

Casey has a reply for that — Casey Jones is _never_ speechless — but Donnie's t-phone chirps, so he settles for stuffing a forkful of mash and gravy into his mouth while Donnie reads the text.

"They're ten minutes out," he says, slipping his phone back into his belt. "Eat fast. Leo wants a meeting when they get here."

* * *

Because Casey likes being alive with all his arms and legs still attached, he's never seriously considered telling Raph that he's painfully easy to read. Raph thrives on the idea that he's tough and mysterious, when really everything he feels is written loud and clear on his face.

Today, Raph's not even trying to hide how he's feeling with a swagger or fighting with Leo. There _was_ a fight with Leo, because Raph's eyes have that pinchy look that always comes when they blow up at each other — but Raph's heavy-footed too, and just as slump-shouldered as Donnie after a bad day in the lab.

_Shit_, Casey thinks. He reaches back with one foot to snag a stool for Raph, but the twisting shifts his bandage, and all his good intentions disappear as the urge to _itch_ takes over.

"Idiot," Raph says quietly, no real heat in it, and grabs the stool himself. "Why aren't you still asleep?"

Leo, Mikey, and Usagi all have that quiet going on too, so even though they all _look_ fine — though now that Casey looks closely, there are long, thin scrapes on Leo's arms — something's still screwed up.

"What happened?" Donnie asks sharply. "Is everyone okay?"

"We're fine," says Leo. "Where's April? We all need to talk."

"On the phone, it's about her dad. Leo, what _happened_?" Donnie lifts Leo's right arm, frowning at the scratches. Till the day he dies, Casey is never going to get used to the casual way the turtles handle each other. Leo hisses and yanks his arm away.

"It's _fine_, Donnie. We treated them back at the shelter." Leo pauses, meeting Raph's eyes, then Mikey's and Usagi's. "Get that one off the map — we can't go back to it."

"We can't — all right, start talking, Leo." Casey feels Donnie's frustration and worry fill the kitchen, a crackling, suffocating wave. "Raph said there wasn't anything to worry about in his text, and now you all come in like —"

"You have _enough _to worry about," Leo says, his voice sharp enough to cut steel. Everyone goes quiet then.

_Oh, fuck_, Casey thinks. Here it comes, the fight that's been brewing for almost a month and a half. When Donnie and Leo fight, it's not something that can get worked out in the dojo, or with some yelling. When they fight, it makes the cuts on Leo's arms look like _nothing. _

Donnie sucks in a deep breath. With his shoulders back like that, he looks a foot taller than usual, and his mouth twists in a tight, ugly sneer. Whatever comes out of his mouth is going to be something he regrets for the next forever, but Casey's not dumb enough to try and distract him. The only thing that'll do is get Donnie focused on him.

Leo pushes his stool back, and the legs scrape on the concrete floor. "You want to do this now, Donnie?" Leo says. Casey wraps his arms around his chest, itch forgotten as his gut freezes over. Leo's scary enough when he yells, but this is a whole new level. "You are…what you are. That's your part to play in all this. But I am still your _leader_."

"That doesn't mean you _keep_ things from me," Donnie snaps. "You really think it's going to help if you withhold information? What if something had gone wrong?"

"You say that like it _didn't_," Raph mutters, then jolts as every pair of eyes turns to him. Casey watches Donnie's face fall, angry and hurt all at once — but it's nothing to the sudden ice-pick of a look Leo gives Raph, who doesn't cringe. His mouth just flattens into a thin line, his eyes cutting down to the left.

"Leo," Donnie says patiently. "This is not how it works. You keeping stuff from me…it's the easiest way for everything to fall apart." He sighs, and sits down heavily, shoving Casey's empty plate away. "I don't even know what this Champion thing is supposed to mean. Don't go treating me like I'm anything…special. I'm still just Donnie." He shrugs, and cover his face with his hands.

After another moment glaring at Raph, Leo sinks back onto his stool. "We ran into a complication," he says.

"That's not an answer, Leo." Donnie crosses his arms over his plastron. "I'm not in the mood to play twenty questions. Spit it out."

Leo gives Donnie a sharp whip-crack look, and Donnie flinches. Even Casey scoots back a little on his chair. _Thank god he's on our side_, he thinks, for the millionth time in ten years.

"You're going to love this," Leo says, finally. "We ran into Karai. She was making a pick-up."

"Pick-up of what?" Donnie asks, like he doesn't really want to know.

"Slash," Raph grits out. "Donnie, it was Slash. The Boar had him hidden in some old house, and now he's back." With another loud scrape of metal on concrete, Raph throws himself out of the stool, out of Casey's reach, and slams both fists into the wall.

Casey remembers Slash: one shadow splitting off from the rest to creep down an alley. He'd wanted to go after Slash, chase down the asshole who hurt his friends, his _family_, but Raph stopped him.

_You don't want to go there, Case_, he said. _It's not worth it._

Mikey told Casey the whole story later, the one that started with mutagen and ended with Raph and Slash howling toward each other, with three broken brothers littered on the roof in between. Not worth it? It would have been worth anything to see Slash beaten. Punished. Casey would have done it, for Raph, for all of them, because no one hurts the people he cares about — but the shadow was gone, the only piece left the part that still haunts Raph's black moods.

Donnie touches his left arm, eyes wide and faraway. "You're kidding," he says. "He went into the Hudson. He should be dead."

"He's not, bro." Mikey claps a hand on Donnie's shoulder. "Still ugly as ever."

"Wait a second," Donnie says, not shrugging off Mikey's hand as he leans toward Leo. "You said the Boar hid Slash." He draws in a quick, horrified breath. "It was _there?_"

Leo nods. He doesn't look away from Donnie, but he doesn't speak.

"Goddammit," says Donnie, in a dead flat voice. "Goddammit, Leo. You — what did it say? Did it talk?"

Raph punches the wall again, and again.

Casey watches Leo's eyes close. It's Usagi who talks instead, from where he's hovering by the door. "Friends," he says. "The Boar said there were other old friends who would be waking up."

"God_dammit_," Donnie says, his voice shaking. "Who else did we miss? Fishface? Stockman?"

"They're dead," Mikey says. "So, we can count those dudes out."

"According to Slash, they're dead," Leo corrects. "How much of that we can trust?"

"Nothing!" Raph shouts. "It's just screwing with us! Just — screwing — with —our — heads!" He smashes his fists into the wall in between every word, until he drops his arms, panting.

If Casey hugs Raph in front of his brothers, Raph'll never forgive him. Tough shit. Casey'll never forgive himself if he leaves Raph on his own. Raph snarls when Casey yanks him away from the wall, but he doesn't fight, not even when Casey slings an arm around his shoulders. "I got you," he says, low enough Raph can pretend no one else heard. "It's shitty, but I got you."

_For how long_? says something, deep down in Casey's head, so quiet he barely hears it.

* * *

_I need air_, April thinks. Her hands shake as she stuffs her phone back into her pocket, but the restless urge to run overpowers everything else. Well, everything except two words: _no change, no change, no change. _Those two syllables echo and clatter in her head, until her feet can't stay still any longer and she pushes away from the wall, toward the door.

She doesn't go far, just past the first curve of the tunnel past the turnstiles. When she passes out of the light spilling from the lair, and everyone's voices are faint echoes, she slides to the ground and breathes, slowly, in and out. If she concentrates, she can _almost_ sense the guys' minds. Almost. It's not enough to distract her, but getting any closer means answering their questions — their careful, worried questions, and she can't face them. Better to stay locked inside her head, alone, until she can breathe normally again.

_No change._

It makes her pitiful and it makes her selfish that she's glad her father is still locked in his own world. He still doesn't know she fell, and he doesn't know what haunts New York. April can't keep her father safe, not this time — but she can keep him unknowing, and that's as good as it'll get.

She counts out the seconds like a pocket of loose change: five minutes, no more, and then she has to head back in. Anything more than that and Donnie will come looking, worry in every line of his body, and she can't put this on him. It's time she carried him.

_I love you, Dad_, she thinks, remembering the pine-and-paper textures of his mind, and pushes to her feet. Her hands are cold, so very cold.

April hears the soft footsteps before she sees the shadow coming around the far curve of the tunnel toward the lair and she pushes out with her mind on reflex before she remembers what she's lost. Nothing. She feels nothing.

The shadow is too short to be anyone but Raph, and it's the wrong shape, skinny and quick where he's all bulk. It's not Martin either. For a moment, April worries that it's Karai — the dark hair and the confident swing of the hips is all Karai — but then the light from the lair catches the curve of a young, pretty face, and it's not Karai. It's no one April's ever seen before.

"You April O'Neil?" says the girl. She cracks her gum, watching April with absolute teenage indifference.

"How did you get down here?" April asks, after a split-second pause to consider yelling for help. She reaches for her tessen instead. "What the hell do you want?"

The girl's eyebrows rise. "Whoa, don't kill the messenger."

"Messenger? From who?"

"Don't you mean _from whom_?" The girl shrugs when April glares at her. "Whatever. I got a message for you. Go to that little park up by the athletic fields near West 218th Street. The Bull wants to talk to you."

"The — _what?_" April shoves her way into the girl's face. "What did you just say?"

"The _Bull_," says the girl, like April's being an idiot on purpose. "You know, from the story?"

April freezes, dread spilling ice into her stomach. "How do you know about —"

"Look, I'm not the one to ask. Either go, or don't." The girl shrugs again. "You got questions, ask him. Or…whatever he is."

April looks over her shoulder at the golden light spilling out of the lair. She can still hear their voices: Donnie's, Leo's, everyone talking all at once.

"Why?" she asks. "Why does it want to talk to me? Doesn't it want to talk to its _Champion?_" She can't help the snarl in her words.

"Yeah, well, he said you're the one with the mind stuff, so he wants to talk to you."

April laughs, a bitter, burned taste in the back of her throat. "The Bull," she says, "is _misinformed_ if it thinks I've got half of what I used to. I can barely feel anyone except the guys." _It was _taken_, _she thinks, pressing her hands to her empty head. _And I never thought I'd miss it but I do. I shouldn't want it back, but I do. What good am I without it?_

"About that," says the girl, then smiles. It's the smile of a true believer, and April doesn't need empathy to know that whatever this girl is selling, she thinks it's real. "He said…he said he can help with that. With everything. Even…" The girl straightens her back. "Even your dad."

It's too good to be true. Nothing is ever free. Either you get what you want, and watch your heart torn out of you, or you wear your skin away to the bone and still never feel the prize in your hands. Donnie would laugh, and say _of course it says it can help_, and then keep working, with his head down, surrounded by chemicals and equations. And he'd find a way, someday.

She isn't the fighter she was, not like this, but she can make sure it's her skin and her bones at risk this time. It's one more stupid risk in a long line of them — she can see Leo's migraine-face in her mind's eye — but it's not Donnie laying himself on the line. Better her than him, if it's a trap.

"So," says the girl. "You gonna go?"

"I'll go," April says, sliding her tessen back into its sheath and reaching into her pocket for her phone. What she'll say to Donnie — well, she'll figure that out on the way.


	12. Part Six

No one understands how Raph feels right now, but if he said so, no one would believe him. He spent seven out of the past ten years yelling about it, out loud and inside his head, and if he has to hear Donnie say _yeah, sure, Raph, whatever you say_ one more time, or watch Mikey nod, wide-eyed and not paying attention, he'll scream.

It was never true — he and his brothers understand each other too well, because that's what happens when you grow up knowing three heartbeats as well as your own — until Slash. The mutagen may have unleashed Slash, but Raph _made_ him, like he'd built Slash with his own two hands. It's no surprise that Slash came out the way he did, when Raph poured the worst of himself and the worst of his brothers into Slash's — Spike's — ears.

He'd been dumb enough to think Slash was dead, cleaned out with the rest of the garbage after Shredder died. Now look where that's got him. Slash is alive, Slash is working with the Boar, and no one, _no one_, isn't thinking about how Slash knew exactly where to hit them all.

Donnie rubs his left arm, eyes far away, and Raph sees him at sixteen years old, all sarcasm and skinny arms and legs, left on a roof like garbage. Like a message: i_t's so easy to take them out, because you taught me how. _

They're older now, and their moves are different, but they're still _them_, and Raph would still know their heartbeats in the dark from a mile away, but Slash knows all that too. And who knows what the hell he's learned, those seven years he'd been sleeping?

And Leo wanted him to walk away. Turn his back on Slash and _walk away_, with that mess still spread all over the street and blood covering Leo's arm like bruises had covered Mikey and Donnie's faces. Maybe Raph hasn't grown up at all, because he screamed at Leo, and still wants to scream, about turning their backs on a fight — but it's about Raph turning his back on what he left unfinished.

No, on what he _started_.

_"Let it go, Raph," Leo warned. "We got out alive. That's enough for now. We can —"_

_"We can what? Figure out how we'll run away next time?" He shoved into Leo's face. His brother might be taller but pound for pound Raph still matched him, and he could take Leo. He could beat that look off Leo's face, then go find Slash, and beat him until — until — _

Until Raph doesn't have to feel like this, like there's fire in his gut, like it's all his fault.

_"Raph —" Leo put his hand on Raph's shoulder. "I'm sorry." _

Hit him_, Raph told himself. _Do it, he deserves it. Then he'll hit you back, and you'll deserve that. You'll be even.

_He hit the shelter's wall instead, over and over, until his knuckles bled. _

His knuckles are bleeding again, but he hits this wall over and over too, waiting for something to give.

"Raph."

Casey tugs him away from the wall, muttering quietly, but it's Leo's voice that Raph hears.

"Raph, come on. We need you."

_No, you don't_, Raph yells silently. _You don't. The Boar said — _

Now he's scared, because he never thought about it, never could put words to it, but the Boar is right: they don't need him. He's just the angry one, the muscle, the extra heartbeat. If his stopped, they would keep going, wouldn't they? So he should have stayed to fight Slash, and let the rest of them get away, right?

Right?

"Don't let it get into your head," Leo says. "Listen to me now, Raph. _Listen_."

Raph tightens his fists. "Whatever," he says.

What he means is _Okay_, because he trusts his brothers more than he trusts himself, and he knows Leo understands. Raph's not ever going to want to talk about _how_ he knows, but he does. Leo gives him a quick nod, some of the tightness around his eyes loosening, before he looks back at Donnie.

"It's not about keeping secrets," Leo says. Donnie cuts him off with a dry, nasty laugh that prickles all along the inside of Raph's shell, but Leo waits it out, his face blank, until Donnie's done.

_Just this once, Donnie_, Raph thinks, _you could _not_ be a grade-a dick about being right. _But then he wouldn't be Donnie, and besides, Raph figures that just this once, Donnie's earned the right to be a dick. It's not right that Leo made Raph leave before he cleaned up his mess, and it's not right he let Donnie come unglued like that. Leo doesn't let things get this bad. So why'd he do it this time? Why was _Raph_ the one to chase Donnie down? Why'd he have to do Leo's job for him? Now he has to watch the fallout, and hope the lair's still in one piece at the end of it. At least when he and Leo fight, it's just _noise_; they might get bruised, but that's it. They don't tear each other apart on the inside, where it counts.

Raph figures there's a sixty percent chance that Donnie will try to set Leo off anyways, because Donnie can be a vindictive little shit, but as soon as Donnie opens his mouth, he shuts it. He frowns at Leo instead, cupping his chin in his hand.

"You said _don't let it get into your head_," he says. "I thought it was just me but — maybe that's its game. Get in our heads, mess around with whatever it finds." He gives Leo a cool, assessing look, and Raph steps his mental alert level down to orange. Donnie might be looking at Leo like he's a science project, but it's better than what Raph expected.

"Dude, it sent _Karai_," Mikey interjects, letting out a blustery sigh as he boosts himself onto the counter. "It doesn't need to get into Leo's head. Uh, sorry, dude."

Leo waves away the apology, eyes narrowed. "You have a point, Donnie?"

"Not a point, but…a speculation." Donnie rubs the back of his head. "I can't believe I was so slow on this — sloppy, so sloppy — but it had a plan of attack long before we knew it was here."

"Go on." Leo sits down, and leans against the table. Raph lets himself relax, as his anger fades into a distant background hum. Now he can press a little closer into Casey's uninjured side, and steal some of his body heat. Casey lets him, smirking without glancing at Raph. "But wait — how is that a surprise? It had Rahzar, and Karai — not to mention whatever Slash told it before he went to sleep."

"It's not a surprise. At least, it shouldn't have been. Stupid, stupid." Donnie starts pacing, wincing and rubbing at his bandages absently as he lopes across the kitchen. "Let's go back to the beginning. To the — to the roof." His steps stutter briefly, and Raph may be shit with emotions but he knows Donnie, and there's no way Donnie isn't thinking about that jump, and the run to the hospital. Donnie recovers a second later and keeps moving. "We hadn't seen action on those docks for years. Then, out of nowhere, movement. And on the night when Casey and April were doing recon alone, a _weapons_ shipment? With Rahzar overseeing it?"

Leo sits up straight as Mikey lets out a low whistle, and Raph's gut freezes over. "Let me get this straight," Raph says, shrugging off Casey's arm and propping his knuckles on the table, relishing the sting. "You're saying it was all planned?"

"Think about it, Raph," says Leo. He's staring at Donnie, blue eyes bright. They're not in sync, but the fight's been tabled for the moment while they're both distracted by their mutual brainwave. "The six of us hadn't patrolled together in years. Nothing big enough to warrant it."

"But Rahzar, and a weapons shipment…"

"And we all came running." Leo sighs. "Like good little soldiers."

"Yeah, but if that was the _plan_, it wasn't a very good one." Mikey kicks the cabinet with his heel. Over Raph's shoulder, Casey makes a light noise of agreement. "Like, we took out Rahzar. End of the line, partner."

"Sometimes," Usagi says slowly, the first time he's spoken in what feels like hours to Raph. Something in his voice twists in Raph's ears, "you sacrifice a valuable piece to find out how your opponent plays the game."

"But what about April?" Casey breaks in, shoving Raph out of the way to make room at the table. "What was that? Why did she…"

"A test," Donnie says, in the same slow voice. He smiles, a hard, grim smile. "Her powers…she could have sensed what Rahzar was going to do. She _should_ have been able to, but something stopped her."

The unpleasant thought that the Boar planned all of that — the attack, the fall — just to make sure April was out of the way hits Raph the same time it hits Mikey and Casey, and he sees his own horror on their faces.

"We came rushing in, just like it expected," says Leo. "And it sat back and watched us, and learned, and —"

"Uh-uh_," _says Casey. "Some creepy pig ain't watchin' us and learnin' all our moves. _Fuck that noise_."

The _ain't_ only shows up when Casey's ready to blow and trying his hardest not to. Now it's Raph's turn to throw an arm around Casey's shoulders and pull him back to the table. "Chill out, Case," he hisses, not caring who sees him pull Casey's forehead down to his. "Don't lose it now."

"Don't tell me not to lose it!" Casey yells. "I got — this is _messed up_, you guys. Like, we can handle the Kraang and the Foot, but this? What the _fuck_."

"I think it's been watching us for a long time," says Donnie, ignoring Casey frothing at the mouth just a few feet away. "And I think…I think it's been in our heads, too." He takes a deep breath, and Raph thinks _No, Donnie, don't say it, man_, just in time for Donnie to open his mouth and say it anyways.

"I mean, why else wouldn't you have straightened me out, Leo?" he says, in as gentle a voice as Raph's ever heard him use. He shrugs down into his shell, all apologetic, and Raph knows that if he was ever pissed at Leo about this, that's long gone. Now Donnie's just sad, resigned to being left out in the cold. "Any other time, you'd have hauled my shell back here the second I took off on my own. So why not this time?"

Leo blinks at Donnie, his mouth working like one of the stupid koi in the pond out back, and for a second Raph thinks Leo's about to be sick.

"I was…lazy," Leo chokes out. "I got used to — we were looking — _no._"

"It's not like you, Leo," Donnie says, still gentle, and Raph wants to shut him up, but he can't. No more secrets, nothing held back. "I'm not…I'm not mad. I mean, I don't have the right. If it kept you from coming after me, it kept me out of where I was supposed to be." His mouth twists and he looks at his hands.

Raph would slap Donnie out of his kicked-dog routine if a thick, slimy dread hadn't started to crawl up his spine. In his _head_. It's sick and the Boar is deader than dead if Raph ever gets his hands on it — but before his temper takes over, he remembers the massive shape in the lair, pacing slowly toward Donnie's lab.

"Aw, god," he says quietly, his stomach knotting into a greasy ball.

No one talks after that, until Mikey's foot slips and bangs against the cabinet door. Everyone's heads snap to him, and he ducks his head, laughing like a little kid.

"So, uh…good thing it didn't count on Raph getting stuff done, huh?"

Raph grits his teeth. The last thing any of them need right now is to be on the business end of Mikey's sense of humor, and he's ready to say so, only with much shorter words, but then he sees how Leo and Donnie are looking at him.

"What're you looking at?" he snaps.

"Good thing it didn't count on you, Raph," says Leo, smiling a little. "Because who would have thought that you'd be the one to go after Donnie?"

"Not me," Donnie blurts out. "Wait, I didn't mean — well, I _did_, but —"

"Have fun getting _that_ foot out of your mouth, Donster," Casey says, then cackles, his anger burned off as quickly as it ignited.

"Are we done yet?" Raph yells above everyone. "Great, so I went after Donnie. Big deal. Who cares? It had to be done."

"But don't you see?" Donnie leans toward him over the table, poking a finger at his plastron. "_You_ came. The Boar counted on it being Leo, as usual, so _that's _what it stopped. Fault lines," he says, pushing away from the table and pacing again. "Enough pressure on the right point, and —"

"Snap," says Leo, nodding along, like any of what Donnie's saying makes sense. Raph wishes they'd go back to almost-fighting. "We break, and we're easy pickings."

"Like a predator cutting one animal off from the herd," Usagi adds, helpfully. Raph rolls his eyes. Donnie and Leo are bad enough, he doesn't need the samurai bunny to start with all the doom talk too.

"Exactly." Leo nods at Usagi. "It's checking for weak points, trying to get us alone." He pauses before swiveling on his stool to face Donnie. "To get _you_ alone," he says. "It probably already knew what you — who you are. What you'll do. And we played right into it. _I _did." Leo shudders.

"I thought it was me," he says, after a short silence. "My decision." He shudders again, a full-body, wracking twist that has Raph reaching out before he knows what he's doing. Leo goes still under his hand, and gives him a short, grateful glance. "I'm sorry, Donnie." When he looks up, he looks a hundred years old. "I should have known. I should have gone after you."

Donnie starts to shake his head. This is how Donnie handles the apologies he really deserves, and it kills Raph to see it even as he wants to pound it into Donnie's head that he can just accept this, and move on: _No, no, you're fine, it's probably my fault anyways, I didn't fix it._

Over and over, for twenty-five years. Raph is tired of it.

"Don't," he says to Donnie, "even think about it. I'm sorry I didn't go sooner."

Donnie stares at him, wide-eyed, until Mikey clears his throat. "I…yeah, I'm sorry too, D," he says. "We all kinda screwed you on this one."

"I don't…" Donnie's doing his own koi impression now, and Raph's not so touchy-feely that he'll hold back on laughing at how dumb Donnie looks. "I don't know what to say, you guys. It's…" He stops himself, huffing. "Thank you," he says. The words come out too sincere, like everything else about Donnie, and Raph has to end this moment before they all start hugging and crying and painting each other's nails.

"So if we're done with the feelings hour, can we get started on a _plan_?" he asks.

"Step one," says Mikey. "Don't let Miss Piggy get into our heads anymore."

"Don't call it that," Leo and Donnie say in unison. There's a muffled snort from Usagi's corner of the room, and while Raph's busy trying to process that Usagi actually does, in fact, _laugh_, Donnie beams at them.

"Well, if someone wants to get Splinter up," he says. "I've got a plan — well, technically, April and I have a plan, but — wait, where's April?"

* * *

Ten years ago, April wouldn't have worried about sending a text. She'd have gone running, without a second thought, confident she could take care of herself, no matter how many times experience had proved her wrong.

She misses that sweet arrogance. That April disappeared a long time ago, but the long process of her vanishing began when her mother died, or maybe even earlier, when the Kraang first meddled with her life.

Or maybe before that, when they first set foot on Earth. Maybe April's never been anything at all, a genetic sport and not really a person.

April sighs, and gives herself a shake. New York subways aren't ideal places to have existential crises, even when you're not on your way to meet a god. She still needs to text Donnie about her sudden vanishing act, even though she knows no text is going to head off the inevitable freak-out. _Hi, Donnie. I know you're already worrying about everything ever, but I decided to go topside on my own and hang out with the Black Bull. At least I hope it's the Black Bull. Fun times! Don't wait on me for dinner. _

She lets out a bitter laugh that makes the people around her shift away, then heads toward the turnstiles. Good thing she has her MetroCard tucked into her phone case; for all the girl's urgency, the Bull didn't seem too concerned about how April got there.

By the time she gets on her train and finds a seat, she's already considered turning around twice. This is, without a doubt, the dumbest thing she's ever done, and that includes trying to take on Karai by herself and sneaking into TCRI. She _left_ the lair, without telling anyone where she'd gone, and on the word of some kid she didn't even know. What the _hell_ was she thinking?

She wasn't. She was too busy acting like she was sixteen again, back when her father was gone and her only friends were mutants and — well, nothing'ss really changed but her age. Her father's gone, and her best friends are the turtles. And this is how she repays that friendship.

_That kid said the Bull could help my dad. And Donnie. I couldn't stay. I had to do something. _She clenches her hands on the edge of her seat and closes her eyes. For once, she's glad her powers are gone, and she doesn't have to deal with the insistent press of a carful of emotions that don't belong to her. She hasn't been aboveground in a week, and she's not sure if it's misanthropy or agoraphobia that has her cringing away from everyone around her.

Or maybe this is guilt, and she's so selfish that she has no idea how to process it.

She still hasn't texted Donnie.

_Hey, Donnie_. _I'm sorry. I had to go. This is how I can help._

Better, but it's still selfish, more about her than him, and the pain she's causing him. After last night's warm, hazy intimacy, the enormity of what she just did galls her. She _left_ Donnie, without a word. No matter what her reasons are — and she's smart enough to know her reasons are shit — he's going to take this one way. There's no way she can take that back.

_I fucked up,_ she thinks. _Oh god, I fucked it all up already. Fuck_.

Her fingers tighten on her phone until her knuckles ache, then she lets out a long breath. The truth is, she came because she believes, and because she's never done well with sitting out a fight — and yes, because she's the only one they can afford to lose.

_Wow, pessimistic, April_. She takes another deep breath and lets it out slowly as the train slows to a stop. _Whatever's happening, you'll figure a way out. Now figure out what to say to Donnie. _

April opens her eyes and stares down at the blank message box. Her seatmate shifts to let someone pass, then they stand too and shuffle toward the door.

_Donnie, _April types. Her fingers still over the display, as something nudges her awareness. Not her empathy, but her hearing — Splinter didn't let her other five senses atrophy, and Leo hasn't either. They pushed her hard, honing her situational awareness, and the people leaving the train are too quiet. No one's talking or shoving. They're all just moving silently toward the doors in long, orderly lines.

More importantly, no one's pushing to get _on_ the train either.

April shoves her phone into her pocket and stands, careful to keep her movements slow and unworried. She needs to get to a safe distance and assess. If it comes down to it, she could run maybe three blocks before her leg gave her serious trouble — if she needs to fight, she won't be able to run at all.

Something gathers behind her, a vast shape taller and wider than the train car, heavy and slow and _old_, so old it makes April's skin crawl.

_For once in your life, April_, she tells herself, as the doors of the train car slide shut and the lights go out, _don't turn around. _

"Sit down, April."

The voice is ordinary, pleasant, reasonable, a sixth-grade teacher's voice, nothing special about it at all. Except, of course, that the voice isn't coming from a mouth.

She sinks down into a seat, her hands wrapped around a pole. "I really hope you're friendly," she says, breathlessly. Her heart thuds in her chest, a laboring, painful beat, and suddenly she _aches_, every scar on her body _hurts_, even the ones more than twenty years old. "I'm going to feel really stupid if you're not."

A dry noise fills the car. It takes April a minute to separate herself from her body's reactions — sweaty palms, dry mouth, a shiver building deep in her belly — and realize that whatever's behind her is _laughing_.

"I'm going to take that as a good sign," she says. With a massive effort of will — _look at me, Leo, look at my self-control_ — she peels her hands from around the pole and settles them in her lap. The movement sends a ripple of pain through her, even her oldest scars flaring brightly, as if the injuries they healed from were new again.

"As you should," says that plain, unremarkable voice, with an undeniable note of amusement running through it. April feels the presence rise up behind her, a great shift that makes the car rock on its rails, and then a quiet footstep grits on the dirty floor behind her. Her instincts scream at her to run, to shove herself through the glass if that's what it will take to get away, but she keeps still, the blood roaring in her ears, as the footsteps reach her seat.

"May I?"

Amazing, how different a voice sounds when it comes out of a throat and mouth, with a set of teeth and a tongue to shape it. April nods, still forcing herself not to look, but fails at holding back a shudder when a weight settles on the seat beside her. From the edge of her vision, she sees a small flicker of movement, and then the train rumbles into motion, speeding up as it leaves the station and plunges into the dimly-lit tunnels.

"It's probably a little late for me to ask this question," she says. "But how am I supposed to know you're the Bull?"

"Never too late," says her new seatmate, settling back comfortably. "The answer is quite simple. Your pain."

"My _what?_"

"I apologize for the discomfort," comes the sideways reply. "It is…a condition of our being. You are mortal, and we are not…safe, for you. The body knows, when the mind does not."

"But the Boar —"

The dry laugh fills the car again. "It would not be in the Boar's best interest to cause pain to its potential servants. As for me…well, I prefer a certain transparency. It does hurt, it will hurt." Another laugh. "It will pass, in time."

April has no answer to that. She has no idea if it's true, or a carefully constructed lie, and she doubts her empathy would help her figure it out even if she still had it.

"I thought…" April's voice fails her, crumbling away into nothing before disappearing completely under the clatter and roar of the train. She swallows as best she can with her throat blasted dry, and unclenches her hands to lay them flat on her lap. "I thought you wanted me to go to the athletic fields," she says, talking too fast and not caring — anything to get the words out, anything to make this _normal._ "We've got another ten stops to go."

"A small subterfuge," says the creature sitting beside her. It shifts slightly, its hip bumping her in a rustle of soft fabric. April flinches away. "I trusted my messenger, but your home is no longer safe. It has already been…" The creature makes a short, impatient sound. "Tainted," it says at last. "The Boar's hoof is already stamped upon it."

April licks her lips. "A subterfuge," she says, aware in a faraway part of her mind that any step she takes might be the wrong one. "You mean a lie."

The creature shrugs. "If you like. But for a few moments, the Boar's eyes are elsewhere, and we may talk. And I have very much wanted to meet you. Such an incredible creation."

She flinches again, not in disgust or from the pain still radiating through her scars, but as an old, old sadness rises in her. "Yeah," she says, her voice bitter and cold. "That's me. The great experiment. I am April, destroyer of worlds."

"You were designed, yes, and you were used. But that is not all you are. You have been made more."

"Made more." April laughs. Her voice echoes over the train's rattle, too loud and too bright. "The Kraang didn't — I haven't changed. I'm just me, just…" Her gaze falls on her hands, and the edges of the marks still staining her palms.

_"Pretty," says Casey, his eyes still closed. "Pretty, pretty, pretty." _

_"No!" April tries to shout, but her voice is lost. Instead, she raises her hand, her five fingers spread wide, and snaps them closed into a fist. _

_She doesn't know why she does it; there's no instinct or silent instruction telling her what to do, but as soon as she feels her hand clench, Casey's mouth snaps shut, and the words are gone. _

"No," she whispers, her stomach plummeting. This is worse than being eaten, worse than Donnie's worry or the guilt at leaving him, worse than her father going so far away she can't bring him back. This is white tiles and needles in her skull and metallic voices laughing as she cries and screams. This is the same as always, her body on the operating table and her brain split open and toyed with, and it shouldn't be possible for a heart to break so many times. It shouldn't, it can't be possible, but there it is, one more fracture, one more faultline, because she's been changed again and —

"You _bastard_," she hisses, her throat burning and her eyes pricking. "What did you do to me?"

The Bull shifts. "What was necessary," it says, after a brief hesitation. "April —"

"No. Don't — don't try to explain, you _changed me_." She stands up, her anger and pain making her sluggish, and fights her way against the inertia and toward the door. "That night in Donnie's room," she says. "It happened then, didn't it? After I saw —"

"Yes." There's no contrition or apology in the Bull's voice now. "It had to be done. I expect no forgiveness."

"Good!" April shouts, her control breaking. She spins around, her marked hands clasped at her chest. The Bull watches her, its pale face a smudge in the low light. "You all — you all take, and take, and it's _fine_, because I'm just one more experiment, even now!" She takes in a deep breath, and pushes past the instinct telling her to stop, to stop screaming at the god she's trapped with. She doesn't care. It _changed_ her, and she's still never going to be whole.

The anger swells inside her, until every nerve feels blistered and raw. This isn't anything more or less than what the story promised — the Boar gives, and the Bull takes — but she never thought the story would touch her like this, and leave one more mark on her body.

"You bastard," she says again, her voice breaking. God, she's going to cry, and that makes it worse; she can't even stay angry enough to avoid tears. "Why me? Because it was _easy_ to change me? What did you _do_ to me?"

"April," says the Bull, its voice inches away. She can feel its breath on her face and neck, a thick, hay-scented fug, and she reels away, flailing with both arms. There's nowhere to run on this dark, speeding train, but she tries. She turns her flail into a spin, every scar shrieking as she moves, and just pushes off the balls of her feet when the Bull's arm fastens around her elbow. "Please, April, listen."

"No!" Her voice is a howl, and she rounds on the Bull, tears on her cheeks, almost spitting as she screams. "Don't touch me — don't _fucking_ touch me!"

Again, there's no instinct, no internal urge. April just slams her free arm forward, fingers splayed, and screams as something pours out of her. It feels like an entire river is rushing out of the palm of her hand, a flood she never knew she carried inside her. The lights in the car go up and her pupils contract, one more note of pain, and the Bull's grip on her arm loosens as it stumbles backward down the aisle.

"Yes," it says, barely audible over the train's noises. "Good."

The train rounds a corner and April falls back against a set of chairs, her legs too weak to hold her up. She drops to the floor, too drained to care about dirt or trash, too bewildered to do more than stare at her hands.

_I did that_, she thinks numbly, then screams as an iron-hard pair of hands drags her to her feet.

"Do it again," orders the Bull, through white, crooked teeth. Its face is close enough now to make out details: weathered, sagging skin, a fringe of white hair just over its ears, and a concave slope where one side of its face used to be. "Again, April, there is _no time_."

"Let go of me!" she yells, trying to wrench herself out of its grip. "I'm not — _let go!"_

This time, she uses both hands, her fear and anger forgotten, because she can feel it now, the flood, pressure and heat and power rising through her from some hidden reservoir. When it leaves her body, the Bull flies back down the length of the car, skidding the last few feet on its back.

"Oh my god," says April, wobbling and light-headed, then sinks into a chair. She senses the place where the power lives, like a pocket universe hidden inside her chest. It flares when she pushes her mind toward it, a welcoming tendril reaching out to her, and she lets herself enjoy the contact for a brief moment.

By the time she comes back to herself, still a little dizzy but exhilarated, the Bull has risen, and walks toward her.

"What did you do to me?" she asks, with a sharp sting of betrayal as she hears the wonder in her own voice. She can't like what's been done to her. She _can't_.

The Bull stares at her for a long time, swaying with the motion of the train, its black eye shining like tar in the fluorescent lights. "You were powerful before," it says. With one crooked finger, it touches her forehead. April closes her eyes. "Now you are mighty."

She doesn't feel mighty; she feels small and used.

"Did I do that?" she asks, nodding at the Bull's broken face. She doesn't feel guilty, not after what it's done to her, but a part of her cringes away from the implications. If she could that much damage without trying, what could she do if she put some thought behind it?

That line of thought ends when the Bull lets out one of its dry chuckles. "No. That is from a battle that happened long before your time. But I applaud your confidence."

April flushes, the warmth in her cheeks barely noticeable against the heat burning low inside her. "Then what _did_ I do?" she demands, her voice rising as the heat crests under her skin, then fades. "I pushed you around. So? That's not — wait." Somewhere between the first flood and the second, the pain disappeared. Her scars, even the newest, have gone back to sleep. "Wait, wait, wait," she murmurs, and tugs the collars of her sweater and shirt to the side. The ragged edges of her scar are still here, but they're pink, not blistered red, and long-healed.

"Holy shit." Now that she's paying attention, she can feel the heat most there, and at her thigh. If she could see that scar too, would it be just as healed as this one?

_Yes_. The answer is _yes. _She can fight again. She can help Donnie.

"I'm healing?" she asks, still staring at her old-new scar, marveling as the heat bleeds away completely and leaves only a faint, cinnamony tingle behind. No stiffness, no extra strain on the bones and muscles surrounding the scar. "Is this —"

"Think of it as a kind of entropy," says the Bull lightly. "Since I know how Donatello feels about _magic_."

April almost laughs, but a new thought catches her attention — a sweet, tantalizing thought. A healing factor is one thing, and she wants to sink her teeth into that, but —

"Can it…" April swallows, squeezing her eyes closed. She won't pray, not with a god standing in front of her and its finger touching her like a benediction, but she hopes. For Donnie. "Can I kill it?"

The pause before the Bull replies is all the answer she needs. "No," it says, ruefully. "But you can slow it down."

Yes. She can do that much.

Yes. She can do that much. It's nowhere near enough, but it's more than she had an hour ago, even if she doesn't know what her limits are. Or if she _has_ limits. What she did to the Bull — that's just the beginning. "How do I do that? Are you going to teach me?" What she did to the Bull — that's just the beginning. "How do I do that? Are you going to teach me?"

"There is no time," says the Bull. "I must return you before the Boar's eye turns toward us."

"That's _bullshit_," she snaps, and yes, pun _very_ much intended. "You can't just shove all this into me and leave me to figure it out. You —" She stops herself right before she says _you owe me_, because she's pretty sure that's the fastest way to a smiting, or whatever the Bull does.

"I can," says the Bull, all kindness dropping out of its voice. April feels her blood freeze, and her bones ache; forget the scars, this is pain she never thought she'd feel, like the Bull is aging her right out of her body. "You are an instrument, however gifted. Do not _presume_ that I am inclined to be overly generous, simply because you are on my side." It grips her chin gently and lifts her head. "The body knows," it says. "Listen to yours."

April jerks her chin out of its hand, all giddiness gone. Now she's just _pissed_, same as she is whenever Leo tried to cut her out of missions. "Great advice," she says. "Are we done? Because this has pretty much been pointless, and if you're not going to tell me anything —"

"I will call for you and Donatello, when the work begins," the Bull interrupts. "Tell him…we will speak soon, he and I." It holds out a knobby hand, and April takes it warily, letting it pull her to her feet. The skin under her fingers is cool and dry. "By then, I expect you to have learned some respect. This is your stop."

"My stop?" April asks, turning her head and boggling at the sign outside the train. "But this isn't a circular route, how did you —"

The Bull is gone.

"Well," April says to the empty car. "_Shit._" When the doors open, she starts to shake, and can't stop.


	13. Part Seven

"You go get April," Leo says. He slides off his stool. "I'll get Splinter. Is there —"

"Already reheated," Donnie replies as he passes. "There's a plate in the microwave." He doesn't quite make eye contact, but he doesn't recoil when Leo shifts to bump his shoulder against Donnie's. He doesn't lean into the touch either. That's fine; Leo knows there's work to do, mortar to replace, and he's happy to do it. His mistake, his responsibility to make amends.

Splinter is still asleep when Leo opens the door to his private room. He pauses on the threshold, conscious of the weight on his shell, and how hard he has to work to keep his shoulders straight.

Life would be so much _easier_ if Splinter still guided them. Leo could leave the apportioning of blame to him, and shoulder his share without complaining, because Sensei said so. Splinter could help him find a way to apologize to Donnie — but Splinter has been sleeping more lately, slower to wake even on the warmest mornings, and the family has been Leo's to lead for years now. If there's blame to be handed out, he's the one that has to do it. He can't spare himself.

It's a measure of how age has finally started to catch up with Splinter that Leo's approach only stirs him. He shifts on his futon, murmuring, then settles into silence. Leo listens to the whisper of his father's breathing, and marks the way grey has overtaken brown in Splinter's fur. Splinter is almost _old._

Now is far from the best time to be considering mortality — his own, or his father's.

_But it is topical_, Leo thinks wryly, and slides the door open all the way. There's a catch as the door shudders in its sliders, just like Leo expects, but the soft click doesn't disturb Splinter's rest. He keeps breathing, steady, slow, dreaming and wrapped in soft blankets.

A stray shaft of regret touches Leo briefly; wouldn't it be easier to just leave his father to his dreams? Splinter won't be fighting with them, Splinter won't be planning with them. At best, he'd offer counsel, or a wry remark to break tension.

Leo weighs this idea, finds it solid and unyielding in his mind, and closes the shoji. He can get Splinter up to speed later.

The regret fades to a whisper, and then to nothing, and he lets his focus turn back to Donnie. Donnie and his inventions, Donnie and his damned refusal to quit. Donnie and his unending reservoir of forgiveness. Leo sighs, and rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. There's no more denying it, no more easy answers. He should have brought Donnie home, and he didn't.

_It wasn't my fault_, he tells himself as he walks toward the kitchen. The thought is no comfort; he should have known himself better. He should have questioned it. He should have —

"Uh, Leo?" Mikey parts the curtains to the kitchen, eyes searching for Leo in the half-dark of the empty dojo. "You…you should get out here, dude."

Leo nods, very aware of how tired he is, how leaden all his muscles feel, and pushes down his longing for a bath and then bed to squeeze Mikey's shoulder on the way past. "Let me guess," he says, trying to smile. "Some new crisis?"

Mikey pauses, then nods, swallowing audibly. It's enough to make Leo start running worst-case scenarios in his head: Kirby is dead, the Kraang are back, Karai has —

"So, April's back," says Mikey, with the false bright edge he uses when he's trying and failing to not alarm everyone. "And she uh. She said she met the Bull."

* * *

Half an hour later, Leo finds himself staring at April's shoulder, where the angry red wound has healed into a pink, ragged scar, the size of April's fist. His head aches, and his exhaustion has wound seductive little tentacles through his entire body. He feels like he's underwater, every movement slow and heavy.

April, pale as milk, her pupils blown wide, lets the collar of her shirt fall back into place. No one speaks, no one moves, though Leo can feel Donnie's tension coiling ever-tighter just a few feet away.

"So, to recap," he says, his voice rolling out of his chest strong and sure. "A girl you don't know came into the lair and told you to go meet the Bull, so you left, without telling anyone. And then the Bull met you on a train ride, and told you that it had given you powers, and then…dropped you off back at your stop? But only twenty minutes passed, so you…time-traveled? Or…"

_I hate my life,_ Leo thinks, as April slowly nods. At least she has the decency to look ashamed — of herself, of her story.

"I don't know where to start," he says, rubbing his forehead. "I don't even know what to say. Normally I would be willing to take something on faith, but now…"

Mount Donnie erupts.

"Oh, great, _faith_," Donnie snarls. "Because _belief _has gotten us so far. Maybe we can just _believe_ the Boar away! Maybe we'll all get special powers and turn into magical princesses and win through the power of good. Because that's what happens when you _believe, _right? Can't wait for it to be my turn."

It's hard for Leo to not feel like every word is aimed straight for him, and harder still not to let his furtive guilt show on his face.

"Donnie," April says, twisting her hands together. "I'm sorry, I just thought —"

Donnie throws up his hands, a rough scoffing noise crawling out of his mouth, and then turns away. "If anyone needs me, I'll be in my lab. Working on an _actual_ solution. You guys — you do what you want, as usual."

April's wince is barely noticeable, just a tiny twitch of her head, but Leo sees it. He knows any punishment he can hand down for breaking this unspoken, cardinal rule —_ go nowhere alone without telling someone _— would be frail as wet paper against the steel edge of Donnie's temper.

She stands, her body angling after Donnie, her eyes following him as he stalks toward the lab.

With a massive effort, Leo does _not_ cradle his head in his hands, and instead grabs April's arm to hold her back.

"Let him cool off," he says. April wheels around, the shitlook already in place, but Leo has no reason to go easy on her. "I said _let him cool off_, April. We've got work to do."

That catches her off-guard long enough for the shitlook to melt away, to be replaced by honest curiosity. The flashbang anger still hovers, not too far away, but Leo has a plan for that. A plan to _use_ it.

"Work?" she says slowly. The lion's share of her attention is still on the lab, but she's interested, and that's the first, hardest step taken. With April, distraction and anger are an even more dangerous combination than usual.

"Work," Leo says, and points back toward the dojo. "You say you're healed? Let's test it."

_Because if what you're saying is true, and the Bull has turned you into a weapon, then I need to know how to use you_, Leo thinks as comprehension dawns, and April nods.

He should feel guilty — April is a _person_, she's _family_ — for thinking this way, but he can't.

* * *

Leo waits in front of the tree until everyone is seated - Splinter too, who woke when Donnie exploded, and met them in the dojo - before calling Raph's name. "You're up."

It's impossible to miss Raph's smirk, and it's just as impossible to miss April's uncertainty; why is Leo starting her off against _Raph,_ of all people? She shifts from one foot to the other, her movements easy and loose, and flicks open her tessen.

It's a simple plan, in three stages: Raph will come at April, all brute force and strength. If she can evade him, then it's Mikey turn to try and dazzle her, to test her reflexes and her ability to adapt.

If she gets through that, then Leo will take over, when she's exhausted, nearly wrung dry. And then, he'll see how she fights _with_ someone, not against them.

He feels a thin trickle of concern when Raph starts to circle April, fists clenched, still smirking, but he ignores it. This test isn't a punishment, but it's not fair, either. Leo knows April wouldn't lie, but she might not have been told the whole story, or she may have assumed she's capable of more than she really is. Leo can't take the risk of going easy on her; if she falters, better that she falters _here_, when she's just facing Raph's fists or his own blades, and not topside, when the family is depending on her.

"No rules," Leo says, and watches Raph's gaze snap to him before focusing back on April. "You fight until I call time, or until one of you is knocked out."

Raph's smirk clearly says _not gonna be me, princess_, but when their next turn puts April facing Leo, her face is locked in concentration, her mouth set, her eyes hard.

If she goes down, Leo muses, she'll drag Raph with her, injured or not.

He feels his own energy level rising to meet theirs, adrenaline filtering into his bloodstream, and folds his arms over his plastron. Mikey, Usagi, and Casey kneel behind him, their attention narrowed to the pair circling each other like wolves in the center of the dojo, and yes, their energy is rising too, sharp and bright, like knives catching the moonlight. Leo waits, and waits, holding his tongue to let that restless, seething wave keep cresting higher, waiting for the dojo to be filled with it, crackling just under his range of hearing, until Raph lets out a frustrated, hot huff of air and April's shoulders are tight with anticipation.

"Hajime!" he calls into the thick welter of silence, and Raph comes at April with a roar.

April isn't there; she drops like a stone into water and rolls out of Raph's path, slamming her right leg out and back to connect with his knee as he flashes past. Raph barely stumbles, and wheels around to charge at April. He doesn't worry about telegraphing intent; he's an avalanche, sudden and massive, and while he's not the fastest of the four, he's still blindingly fast. Leo watches with something beyond pride as April blocks Raph's next blow with the flat of her forearm, then slides her tessen through the prongs of his sai and wrenches his arm hard to the left.

_Mistake,_ Leo thinks. April can't shift Raph, not with how big he is, how heavy. Raph's smirk turns feral, and Leo feels Mikey and Usagi sink a little under the weight of disappointment: the fight's over too soon. In a few seconds, April will be laid out flat on her back — even now, Raph's turning at the waist, ready to kick her legs out from under her.

But April gives one last wrench, and uses the momentum not to drop Raph, but to spin herself out of his kick's reach, turning smoothly on her left leg. Her bad leg.

Past Raph's shoulder and disbelieving face, Splinter nods once where he kneels at the other end of the room. Leo realizes he's grinning, and smooths the expression away.

Now it's an all-out brawl, Raph pounding away at empty air as April spins around him, striking light blows on his shoulders and arms with her elbows and tessen. They're not meant to hurt so much as disorient and let April get out of the way before Raph can strike back.

But she's getting tired — healed or not, she's been out of the fight for almost two months. Leo knows she's trying to compensate for the weight and stamina she's lost by focusing on speed, but she's slowing down. Raph's opening is coming.

April's mistake is simple; she tries to jam her tessen through the prongs of Raph's sai again, but she doesn't move fast enough, and leaves herself in Raph's reach. Raph catches her wrist in the prongs of his free sai, and twists his wrist with a fierce, brutal snap. He's strong enough, and April light enough, for the movement to flip her over Raph's arm and flat on her back, breathing hard.

Leo feels a jolt of pure adrenaline race through him. The arm Raph caught was April's right arm, and she's not writhing in pain. Yes. _Yes._ One handful of luck.

"Yame!" he says, and Raph steps away, grinning and practically glowing with confidence. Leo rolls his eyes — Raph's crowing is old, old news — and calls April's name.

She nods as Raph helps her up, rolling her neck and shoulders. "I'm good," she says. "Stupid mistake. Dammit." Her voice is more frustrated than hurt, another good sign. Cautious, tentative optimism leaks into Leo's mind, and he nods.

"You lose, O'Neil." Raph shoves her lightly, still grinning. "Never gonna beat me."

"Whatever, asshole," April shoots back. The color in her cheeks is high, but not feverish; she's angry, not in pain. Leo glances at Mikey, who stands easily and moves to the center of the room. "I'll get you back."

"_Whatever, asshole_," Raph snots in a fair imitation of April's voice as he falls back to kneel in Mikey's empty space. April's mouth thins again, glaring at Raph instead of watching Mikey, who's bouncing innocently on the balls of his feet, beaming.

"Hajime!" Leo yells, his voice like a thunderbolt in the tense, hot room, and April startles. Too late; Mikey's already feinted a punch at her face that makes her reel back, all grace gone. Leo knows Mikey pulled the punch at the last second, but it wasn't meant to hurt, it was meant to rattle. And now April's wild-eyed, her focus scattered, and Mikey happily smashes into April's personal space, hooting and cackling, a riot of noise and color. Even Leo's dizzy, and he's just watching.

Two near-misses later, and April's pulled back into herself, letting herself react to Mikey instead of trying to predict where he'll be. She's slower, centered now, but it's costing her. Not physically, but in terms of concentration. Sweat drips down her neck and mats her hair to her head, but Mikey can't touch her. As fast as Mikey is, and as unpredictable, he can still be in just one place at a time, and April only has to be _anywhere else_ to avoid him.

But taking a purely defensive posture with Mikey never works; it means that April can't take him out, because she's too busy avoiding his nunchuks to attack him. She knows this, Mikey knows this, _everyone_ knows this — you can't beat Mikey when you're trying to outthink him. Sooner or later, something in your brain shorts out, and he catapults through the last of your focus, hollering and grinning, and then you're done.

April holds on longer than Leo assumed she could; almost seven minutes, and the last two minutes are vicious. Mikey stops yelling, stops making raspberries, stops trying to pat April on the head, and launches himself at her in silence. The only sounds in the room are the solid _thwak _as April's tessen blocks Mikey's nunchuks, and April's harsh, labored breathing.

In a movement too tiny to track from Leo's position, Mikey thumbs the release on his nunchuks, and the chain of his kusarigama unspools, the blade glittering in the light. April throws herself out of the way, but Mikey yanks the chain back and swoops low to coil it around April's legs. She tries to leap, but the chain wraps around her ankle — and for the second time, she's flat on her back, with Mikey dancing over her this time.

"Yame!" Leo calls, needlessly, and watches April punch the floor as Mikey unwinds the chain. This time, he backs away without helping her stand, kneeling next to Usagi without a word.

Everyone waits in silence as April rises. Her legs are shaking with exhaustion, her head low between her shoulders. Her breathing is still the loudest noise in the room.

"Do you yield, April?" Leo asks. His words sound hopelessly formal, but the question must be asked. If she's done, she needs to say so.

"No," she says, after a brief pause. When she turns around and meets Leo's gaze, her eyes glitter defiantly, and her hand does not shake as she holds her closed tessen in front of her face. "I'm ready."

He unsheathes his katana, the rasp of metal drowning out all other noise before the dojo fades into silence. April lifts her chin, pale again, but focused.

"You have nothing to prove," Leo tells her, circling her slowly. "You don't need to impress me." He keeps his voice gentle, reasonable, because nothing gets April's temper flaming hotter than when she thinks someone is trying to coddle her.

There's a snapcrack moment when Leo thinks she's about to turn on him, teeth bared and screaming, and he'd fail her for that loss of control. It's happened before, too many times to count, but this time April hauls herself back. Her eyes flash, cold and furious, but she has it leashed in seconds, and her body goes still.

Leo will never know how hard she has to work to control herself; her battles are not his. But he can respect the strength it takes, even as he does everything he can to break it.

"You don't have to fight to be worth something to us," he says, pitching his voice even lower, even kinder. "If you can't, it's all right. We can just wrap it up, take another few days —"

"Leo," April interrupts, her voice just as soft as his, "I know your game. I'm _ready_." She lowers her tessen and flicks it open and closed again at her side, her spine straight as the shaft of an arrow. "Shall we?"

He nearly grins, but controls himself instead, and leaps.

Exhaustion bleeds away, and time slows. Leo feels like he hovers mid-air for hours, watching himself descend toward April. She doesn't move until the last second. Then she simply kneels, her tessen closed and held above her head in both hands to catch the blades of his katana. Leo could break her hold easily with one more blow, but she rolls out of the way before he can, coming to a stop a few feet away, flicking her tessen open to hide her face.

_Let's dance, then_, Leo thinks.

He matches his movements to hers: stately, elegant, slow. It's not a challenge, not a fight. Leo wants April to read his movements, to understand his intent. He doesn't want to _beat_ her. He wants her to _comprehend. _

And she does, she does. It's so beautiful that Leo's throat hurts. This is what he lives for, this wordless communication, this ultimate trust in his family. Nothing will ever come close to the almost unbearable joy in what he and his brothers can do together, but this is nearly as cherished:

April reading the line of his arm to block his blow, the tilt of her head as he thrusts his katana toward her.

He forces her to keeping fighting, pushing her faster, harder, waiting for her to hit her limit. Leo feels like he never will, like he could keep this dance up for days and feel like he's slept for a week at the end of it. The gouges on his arms ache and sting as his sweat runs over them, but that's nothing to the joy of movement. They can do this, they can win.

It hurts to end it, and snuff out the trusting light in April's eyes.

"Raph, Mikey, Usagi — now!" he yells, his voice shattering the silence. April flinches away, confused and heavy-headed, and then hisses through her teeth when she sees the other three converging on her.

Leo gives April thirty seconds before she gives up. She's surrounded, shaking with exhaustion, and mad as hell, and her first misstep will be her last.

How she reacts to her defeat is the final test.

April blocks Usagi and spins low to take herself out of Mikey's reach, but Raph is there, cutting off her one path out of the circle closing in on her, and the dry, acrid smell of her anger fills Leo's nose. It's almost over.

Almost.

He'll take her down smoothly, one kick to the back of her knee, and let that be the end of it. A good end to a good fight. April's earned that much.

When she sees him advancing, she snarls at him, her lips curled back over sharp white teeth, and a single word slips out of her mouth.

_Sorry._

_What for?_ quickly becomes _oh shit_ as April shuts her eyes, her entire body tenses, and then she flings out both arms, palms out.

The soundless concussion shakes leaves from the tree and rattles the picture of Tang Shen and Miwa in Splinter's altar, and it throws Leo and the rest clear across the dojo. He lands on his shell with a _whuff_ and slides back until his head hits the wall, the air knocked out of him. A few seconds pass as his vision wavers in and out of a grey fog and the gouges on his arms scream a protest, and sitting up leaves him dizzy.

"Whoa," says Mikey weakly, from somewhere far away. "That was sick. Is my head still on, dudes?"

"If you're talking, you're fine," Leo replies, blinking away the last of the grey. "Guys? Sensei?" A low chorus of murmurs rises in answer to his question, so Leo pushes to his feet and sheathes his katana. He's far beyond exhausted now. He's drained, like something's been scooped out of him. The hollow place is filling in again, slowly, but he's still clumsy as he crosses the dojo to stand in front of April.

For her part, April looks fine. Better than fine; she's bright-eyed, her cheeks flushed with warm red. Her posture is loose, confident, like she could go another five rounds of sparring and still not be worn out. It gives Leo a chill, knowing that he's so weak and she's fresh as sea air.

Of course. The Bull changed her. How stupid of him to forget — but he can work with this. He can _use_ this.

"Nice demonstration," he says. He searches out Splinter, who looks a little bleary from catching a ripple of April's...whatever, but otherwise fine, then turns his attention back to April. "But don't pull that again. Not on us, at least."

April gives him a chagrined look that lasts for half a second, then shrugs. "Seemed like as good a time as any to show off," she says, as close to an apology as Leo will get - not that he hadn't baited her to begin with. She looks around the room. "Casey, you okay?"

Casey waves at her, propped up on his elbows. "I'm good. Little warning would've been nice."

"Tell me about it," Raph says from the far corner of the room. He's made it as far as his knees, but his eyes are still a bit glassy. He glares at April. "What the _hell_, April?"

"I told you," she says, staring down at her closed fists. "I've been…_augmented_." She opens her hands, fingers spread wide, and smiles. It's an empty smile. no pleasure or defiance in it at all, and Leo steps a little closer, trying to lend what comfort he can. Nothing he can say will soften this — Donnie might be able to, but Donnie's not here. They'll make do.

"It's an augmentation we can work with," Leo says, and smiles back when April gives him a warm, hopeful look. "I think we can work you back into patrols, with a little more practice."

"Tonight?" April asks, her hope a little bolder now.

Leo shakes his head. "We're in tonight. Everyone needs a break, and you and I need to talk about your little sojourn." April winces, then nods, meeting Leo's eyes through her lashes.

_Thought you got away with it? Slippery, slippery April. No, we're in tonight. We both need to talk to Donnie, and we need to figure out who that girl is, and, and, and…_

April sighs, sinking down into herself. "Got it," she says, staring at her hands again.

"You did well, April," Leo tells her. "You're back on." He reaches out and squeezes her bad shoulder — not hard, but one final test. April winces again, on reflex, when he comes close, then sends him a sharp look. _I know what you're doing_, her eyes say.

"Probationary basis," he says. "All right, everyone, get some rest."

It's no surprise at all when April heads straight for the lab, instead of the showers like everyone else.

* * *

The doors to the lab creak when April slips inside, but Donnie doesn't look up from his desk. He's hunched over his keyboard and doesn't turn around even when she makes it halfway across the lab. The only noise is the soft patter of his fingers on the keys, and the rush of blood in her ears.

_Maybe I should have showered first_, April thinks. When she inhales, she smells her sweat and the resin on her hands and bare feet. It's not unpleasant — she's smelled like worse things, too many times to count — but a shower would have given her the chance to gather her thoughts, and find the best way to apologize.

A shower would also have given her time to talk herself out of apologizing. It'd be too easy to think, _I need to let Donnie cool down more_, and then let that nebulous thought stretch out into hours of silence. Then what? The silence would congeal, trapping them both like insects in amber. Donnie deserves better than that.

"Hey," she says. "Are you busy?"

Donnie shrugs, still not turning around. "I found that girl on the security feeds," he says, jerking his thumb at the monitors to his left. "I'm running through DMV records now to see if I can get a match."

"Oh?" April says, gritting her teeth at the tentative, nervous quaver in her voice. "Good plan. Do you need any help?"

Donnie's typing doesn't slow. "Nope. I'm fine."

"You're a terrible liar." She tries to make it a joke, but the words come out too pointed, tiny barbs flung across the lab, and it's too late to catch them back. "I mean…Donnie, I came in here to apologize."

He nods, still typing. The sound clatters against April's ears, and she resists the urge to stomp across the lab and swing Donnie around in his chair so he actually _looks_ at her. But this is what she deserves, more than any punishment Leo will dish out later. She broke the rules, yes, but she _left_. She doesn't get the privilege of offering her apology when it's convenient for her.

"If you want me to go, I will," she says a few moments later. "But I am sorry. I screwed up." She swallows and looks down at her feet, unable to watch the high, unyielding wall of his shell any longer. Was it only this morning that she didn't hesitate to touch him? That he touched _her_?

The typing pauses. April lifts her head, ready to face the brunt of Donnie's anger head-on, and steps into the range of his mind. The anger's there, but nowhere near as intense as she expected, and what's left isn't directed at her, but far away - far away, and fading fast. It's burning itself out, and leaving only ashes. Tired, grey, resigned ashes.

He stays hunched over his keyboard as his emotions wash over her, and a moment later the typing begins again. "It's fine," Donnie says. "I'm sorry I freaked out."

Oh, no. _No_. April is not going to let them follow the usual script; she is taking the blame for what she did, because she is going to be better — but isn't that selfish, too, in its own way? If Donnie doesn't want to assign blame, why should she demand it?

Because that's the old way. If she gets to keep this fragile beginning, she has to earn it.

April bites the inside of her cheek. "It's fine," she says, carefully, measuring each word. "You deserved to freak out. I was an idiot, and I'm sorry." She lets a few seconds go by, counting them silently in her head, before she tries again. "If you don't want to talk, I'll go, but you don't have to say it's fine just to...just because you always have."

No reply comes, just more typing. April nods to herself, and turns toward the door before

Donnie's voice stops her mid-step.

"What was it like? The Bull?"

This is good; curiosity is good. Donnie doesn't turn around, but he stops typing, and April nearly sighs with relief.

"It's…strange," says April. "God, that's such a cliché, but I don't have the right words. It was…it hurt. Just being around it hurt, until —" She waves her hands, sharp and frustrated, and sucks a quick breath between her teeth. "It's not good, in any way I can explain. It just _is._" She hesitates there, unsure what else to say, unsure _how _to say it.

"It's much bigger than it looks," she says finally, slowly, every word a struggle. "I saw what looked like a man, but it's like that was just all it wanted me to see. Or all I was allowed to see. It wore the man, but there's more and I —" April huffs, shaking her head. "I keep trying to quantify it in my head, or come up with the right analogy, but nothing's coming. It's big, and it's not…kind. Not the way we think of kindness."

"Well, that's reassuring," Donnie says, his voice dry as old bones. "Explains a lot, too."

"I think you'd have to be a poet to get even close to what it really is." April shrugs, even though Donnie can't see. "And we both know that is something I'm not."

Donnie nods, hunching even lower at his desk. It shouldn't be possible for someone so tall to look so reduced, but he does. He looks tired and small, and April forgets all her good intentions to let him be to cross the rest of the lab.

She brushes her knuckles down the line of his arm, a quiet, testing touch. When he doesn't move away, she keeps touching him, gentle fingertips stroking the ball of his shoulder. He sighs, deep and shuddering, and leans back in his chair.

"What I don't get is why it won't talk to _me_," he says, eventually. April waits, and keeps touching him in silence. "It makes no sense, if I am what it — what this _story_ says. If it's not going to help, why choose me?" The hurt in his voice takes a wry twist. "Then again, maybe it just likes watching me flounder around. It'll help you, it'll pick random people off the street to play messenger, but when it comes to the _Champion_, no, better not say anything! It's funnier this way. Watch Donnie run."

"It said it would come to you soon," April says, knowing it's a weak protest. "And that the lair is tainted —"

"So why not ask _me_ to go?" Donnie finally wheels around in his chair. "I know I'm starting to sound like a broken record, but what am I supposed to do? Wait until my turn for divine guidance shows up?" He shakes his head and covers his face. "Why?" he says into his palms. "_Why_?"

If this were a panicked reaction to stress, like earlier, then April could have pulled Donnie back with logic, with numbers and sterile calculations. This is something closer to despair, and April doesn't know how to help Donnie when he's this tired, and this sad.

_You're a real bastard,_ she thinks at the Bull, all too aware of the healing warmth still clustered under her scars. _I'm not the one you should have helped. Take it all back and help your Champion_.

It's not a prayer, and there's no answer. Of course not. Why would things be _easy? _

"I don't know," she says. "I wish I did, but —" Donnie sighs into his cupped hands, a lonely, barren sound, and April reaches out without thinking to cover his shoulders with her hands. "I'm sorry for leaving," she says. "I should have thought — I wanted to help, but I didn't think. This is not how I wanted this to start."

_What a selfish thing to say_, she thinks, angry at herself for blundering into the personal when Donnie has so much on his shell already, but Donnie lifts his head out of his hands and blinks at her, as if he's just realized she's there. A faint glow reaches her from his head, a golden, summer-flavored warmth that tingles in her mouth and fingers first, before spreading through the rest of her.

"I'm not mad at you," he says. "Did you think…?"

"You've got every reason to be," April says. "I acted like an idiot. And yeah, maybe there are side benefits —" She thinks of Raph slamming into the dojo wall like a cannonball, and makes a mental note to tell Donnie about it later — "but I should have…you know, actually thought things through."

"Then you wouldn't be you," Donnie says, one side of his mouth quirking up. The real smile is in his eyes, warm and hopeful.

"Wow, _harsh_." She's too relieved to feel any offense, and grins down at him. Her hands have started stroking his shoulders again, without her being aware of it, but since Donnie isn't complaining — he is, in fact, _leaning_ into her touch — she's not stopping. "I think some things through."

Donnie squints at her, his worry and care receding into the background. She has so much work to do, so much room to improve, but at least she helped _now_, and that's all she wants to do. "Yeah?" he asks. "April O'Neil, thinking things through? I'm shocked."

There's no better opening, no better opportunity, so April closes her eyes and kisses him. Donnie makes a muffled noise of surprise against her mouth. She breaks away sooner than she wants, to read his expression and know if she's crossed over a line, but she only feels a scrap of stunned relief, and that summer warmth again, before he pulls her close.

_When the hell did you get so good at this_? April thinks with the last rational thought left in her head, before Donnie kisses her near-senseless. So much for _any_ of her intentions, good or bad; she might have come to the lab to apologize, but Donnie has apparently decided to kiss her breathless and she's not going to argue.

But she needs him to know she's not trying to cheat her way out of blame; she meant it when she said this is not how she wanted them to start, and so she pulls back far enough to meet his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I shouldn't — I wanted to help, but I —"

"April." Donnie runs a hand through her hair, then frowns. With a smooth motion, he eases her onto his lap, an echo of their earlier position, but now it's him comforting her. "Just…don't do it again. Please?"

He's not just asking her to think, he's asking her to stay. To help. Donnie, who never asks for anything, asked _her._ It's more trust than she hoped for so early, but she won't — can't — take it for granted.

"Promise," she says, and leans in for another kiss. She wants it to be sweet, but then Donnie runs both hands through her hair and the kiss becomes something else entirely: heat, and need. Warmth prickles down her neck and over her legs, and she wraps both hands in the tails of his mask and pulls him closer. He responds with a tentative brush of his tongue against hers, and she's debating how to best maneuver herself so she's straddling him — why not go a little farther, while they're here and she has him so attractively pinned down? — when an alarm chimes softly to her left.

Donnie lets her go slowly, resting his forehead on hers and delightfully flushed. "That's…" He licks his lips, and April nearly kisses him again. She settles instead for nuzzling under his chin, and smiling when he sighs. "That's the DMV search. We've got a match."

"Oh?" April lifts her head, and finds the girl from the tunnel staring down at her, sullen and washed-out. "Oh, wow, yeah. That is her." She squints to read the name, reluctant to move off Donnie's lap. "Angelica Vega, nineteen years old." She shudders. So much for holding on to the warmth of Donnie's kisses; they're back to the war now. Probably a good thing, too — Donnie may be willing to let her slide to keep the peace, but that's no foundation for going forward. For being _them_. For now, though, that conversation can wait. "God. She really is just a kid."

Donnie makes a thoughtful noise. When April looks up at him, he's frowning. "Angelica Vega," he murmurs. "I know that name."

"Someone you guys helped out?"

He shakes his head, the frown deepening. April stands up, knowing that look all too well. She might _want_ to distract Donnie, but that's the last thing he needs. "Wait, that address — Mikey's grannies. That's Milagros' address."

"The one who makes the bread?" April says, then wants to smack herself in the head for saying something so inane. "So…this kid is her what, granddaughter?"

"Looks like," Donnie says, stepping closer to the monitors. He turns back to April, grinning. "Which means we've got ourselves a lead."


	14. Part Eight

**_March 14th, 8pm._**

Donnie's exhilaration over finding a lead — not just any lead, but a _direct connection_ — dies the moment he realizes just how direct that connection is.

_There's a pattern here,_ he thinks, after the fourth hour of sifting through online databases nets him nothing useful (Angelica Vega: animal sciences major, arrested once at fifteen for shoplifting, had chicken pox twice, missed three weeks of eighth grade thanks to mono). _I'm just not seeing it. _

The thought occurs to him that it's not a pattern, but a maze, and that comforts him even less. His eyes ache, and his legs are starting to stiffen from being stuck under his desk for so long. April drifted away in the middle of hour one, dragging warm fingers along his cheek and neck, murmuring about getting in a shower, and came back an hour later to deliver a fresh pot of tea. _Not_ coffee — a distinction Donnie didn't miss. Her message couldn't have been clearer: _you need to sleep, Donnie._

_How can I,_ he thinks, rubbing his neck, _when there's something I'm not seeing?_

Another thought — _will you be there?_ — rises hopefully, but Donnie ignores it.

The lab doors creak open. "Hey," April calls. "Donnie? You should get some sleep." Her voice is tentative, poised on the edge of a question she doesn't ask, but that Donnie reads well enough when he turns around to watch her face. She arches one eyebrow, and tilts her head ever-so-slightly back toward his room.

Something unknots in his chest — he can actually _rest_, and April will be there when he wakes up.

He reaches back without looking and shuts off his monitor. "A few hours couldn't hurt," he says, grinning in spite of his sore muscles when April blinks in surprise. "What, were you expecting a fight?"

"I was expecting at least ten minutes of wheedling and then threatening to cut the power to your rig before you gave in," she says, wrinkling her nose at him. She looks adorable, but Donnie closes his mouth before he can tell her so. Maybe later. "Why no resistance?"

"Because you'll be there," he says, too quick, too honest, and masks his cringe with a shrug. "I, uh…"

"Come on, smooth talker," April says. She holds out her hand, smiling her sharp, sweet smile. A smile that's all for him. "Let's go to bed."

"Just a few hours," Donnie protests as she tugs him down the hallway, fully aware any protest or good intention on his part means less than nothing against the idea of his bed with April in it.

And if that makes him a bad Champion — well, to use Raph's phrase: _tough shit._

* * *

**_Elsewhen_**.

There's shouting from the main hall, too many voices for Mike's ears to separate until Alice's voice rises above all the rest in a howl. Everyone else goes silent as she keeps yelling, her voice cracking, and Mike feels the old, old urge to bury his head under a pillow until the shouting stops.

Then it _does_ stop, and the silence is even worse, prickling along his skin until a door slams and he almost jumps off his bed.

He could stay here, in the room set aside for whenever he comes back, lock the door and ignore what's happened to his family, what's still happening, what's never going to stop, but he's not sixteen anymore. He's not the cute little baby of the family who can get away with messing around in the lab if he makes puppy eyes long enough. If he doesn't go and try to smooth this over, just a little, they won't talk to each other for weeks.

They may not have that long.

He sighs and cracks his knuckles, and heads for the main hall. Casey and Raphael are still there, arguing in hushed voices, and Leonardo sits at a table with his head in his hands.

"So what went wrong this time?" Mike asks as he approaches. "Who'd we lose?" He tries to guess while he waits for a response — Angel went in the last big purge, her fingers wrapped around a detonator that never went off, Mondo got caught in a sinkhole in what used to be the Bowery. Half the people he knew died when pneumonia hit the compound five years ago, and there's always someone who didn't move fast enough when the warhounds came out to play.

There just aren't that many of them left. Every time he comes back, there are more echoes. and fewer people.

"We didn't lose anybody." Raphael doesn't look up, just runs his hand over the back of his head, just like — just like Donnie did. Mike would never say it, because it's the fastest way to a beatdown, but he hasn't missed the way they've all absorbed little gestures like that. Like somehow they can keep Donnie here and alive if they capture enough of him.

But the first time Mike realized he was sticking out his tongue as he read, he nearly puked.

"So why all the yelling?" Mike asks, sitting down across from Leonardo. "What's up with Alice?"

"She —" Casey slashes his hand through the air, his mouth screwed up in a thin, grim twist. "I don't know why it's such a big deal," he goes on a minute later, stabbing a finger toward Leonardo. "It'd screw _anybody_ up. You can't take her off patrol for this."

"It'd be a mistake to send her out again," Leonardo responds, with that calm, smooth voice that always makes Mike want to spit and scream. "She's lost her center. And if we can't rely on her, then we're only setting up other people to be hurt."

It doesn't take a genius to know what would make Alice _lose her center_. Mike feels his blood go cold as the realization creeps into his brain. "Aw, man," he says, and sighs. "Karai?"

Casey nods, mouth still all twisted, and Raphael makes a hard noise in the back of his throat. It must have been bad, then — not just _bad_, but _terrible_, if Casey and Raphael don't have anything to say.

No one talks for a while after that. Leonardo takes off his sunglasses and polishes them on a rag, then puts them back on.

"What'd she do?" Mike asks, when the silence is too much for him to handle. He spends so much time alone that not talking doesn't bother him anymore, but this isn't a quiet that will go anywhere good. So he'll bite the bullet and deal with Raphael's glares, because _someone's_ got to. "She go running off this time?" It hasn't happened yet, but there's a day coming when all of Alice's training won't matter, and then Donnie really will be gone, because she is.

Raphael shakes his head. He shrugs deep into his jacket, hands buried in his pockets. "Nah. She just — we were just doing a sweep, trying to pick up anyone that might still be out there, down on 49th…"

Mike sucks in a breath. 49th is closer to the lair than they've been in years. Miles out, yeah, but close enough to see the spire rising over what used to be their home. Maybe not close enough to see the cage, but close enough to hear it, if the wind's right.

"It's our fault," Casey says, when Raphael shakes his head again and goes quiet. "We shouldn't have gone that far. Like anyone's still out there —"

"We still need to look!" Raphael snaps, but Casey plows through him, still jabbing his finger in Leonardo's direction, even though Leonardo doesn't turn around or respond.

"— so she froze up! It happens! You know what's out there, and if it took her this long to freak —"

"We don't have the luxury of second chances," Leonardo says, so final that Mike sinks low in his chair. "Alice is off patrol until I'm satisfied that she's ready."

"And how long'll that be?"

They all jump when Alice's voice fills the hall. She's standing in the doorway, watching them all with red eyes.

"We all know there's not a lot of time left," she says. "You just have to look outside — god, you don't even have to do that. Just listen to the wind."

"Alice, I've made my decision," Leonardo says. He takes his sunglasses off and stands, slowly, like every muscle aches. Mike feels an overwhelming urge to bounce out of his chair and gather them all in — Leonardo, Raphael, Casey, even Alice — just one last hug, that's all. A few years ago, he'd have done it, no matter how much Raphael yelled and Leonardo told him to grow up, but they feel like strangers with his family's names now. He can't touch them.

Would Donnie know what to do if he were here? Maybe not; maybe Mike's built him up so much over the decades that it's not really Donnie he's looking for anymore. But maybe he _would_. Maybe Donnie would walk through the doors and know just how to shut Raphael down when he starts to punch the wall, and how to get Leonardo to smile for once.

They broke when Donnie didn't come home, and they're still breaking twenty years later. Mike thought there'd be an end to that, to how much it still _hurts_. It never ends; he goes to sleep missing Donnie, and he wakes up feeling like part of him's been ripped away. Knowing that Raphael and Leonardo feel the same way — sometimes that feels like the only thing they have in common anymore.

"Who else do you have to send?" Alice asks, in a flat, steady voice. A chill starts working its way up Mike's spine, leaving him cold under the shell. "How many people do we have left who can fight?"

"That's not the point." Leonardo turns to face Alice. "You have a weakness that can be exploited. Karai knows this, which means the Shredder knows it."

"Which means the Boar knows it too. I'm not ignorant, Leonardo."

Mike nearly chokes on the laugh bubbling up his throat. She _sounds_ like him now, so much it's like hearing a ghost talk, all snide and know-it-all, and he thinks _Don, you'd be proud, she sounds just as snotty as you did_. It's not like April didn't have as much a hand in Alice becoming who she is — the anger is all there, and the shitlooks, and the subtle grace, but Donnie's closer to the surface, almost close enough to touch.

"It won't happen again," Alice promises, ignoring Leonardo's tired sigh. "It won't. And if it does — what does it matter? We're marking time, that's all."

"Hey," Raphael snaps. "Don't talk like that, we're not dead yet, kiddo."

"We will be," Alice fires back, and there's April. Mike rocks back in his chair, sick because he knows Alice is right, and so tired of knowing it. "We've got _nothing._ Mom and Dad died because they thought we had a chance at getting that stupid spear, and it was all for _nothing_. We're dead." She tosses her hair over her shoulders. "Maybe if we _had_ the spear, we'd have a chance, but now all we can do is —"

"You are out of line, Alice," Leonardo says, very quietly. "Dismissed."

Mike watches Alice inhale, and tenses, ready for her to snarl something that'll stick in Leonardo's shell like a blade, but she just shrugs. Not defeated, but willing to wait.

"Fine. You guys can waste your time. I've got work to do." She turns and disappears into the dark hallway on the other side of the door.

"She's right, you know," Mike says, once Leonardo sits down. "We _are_ dead."

"We've got some time left," Leonardo says, still quiet. "Time to do some good."

Mike nods, tracing a circle in the dusty ash that coats the table. Far above them, the gentle patter of the rain begins on the roof.

* * *

**_March 15th. _**

Donnie wakes up to the sound of his own voice, sleep-heavy and bewildered.

"The spear," he says again, as he comes fully awake, shuddering under the weight of something pressing against his mind. It's gone before he can identify it, but the two words linger: _the spear. _

"What spear?" he asks his ceiling, blinking slowly.

April murmurs sleepily and shifts against him, one arm thrown carelessly over his plastron. "Donnie?" she asks, without opening her eyes. "You okay?"

He nods before he realizes she can't see, then nestles her closer, till her head is tucked under his chin. "I'm okay," he says, and it's true, he is. He's warm, and the curve of her hip fits perfectly into the palm of his hand. "Go back to sleep."

"Mmm. Okay." April wraps a leg over his thigh. "Night."

"Night," Donnie replies, smiling in the dark. He's already half-asleep before the words rise again, like smooth stones just breaking the surface of a pond.

_The spear._

* * *

There's an itch at the back of his skull, something half-remembered but not important enough to focus on now, so Donnie concentrates instead on using small enough words for everyone around the table to understand.

"All we need is a power source - I know it's a long shot, but if it's not just some nightmare, then accessing that dimension is our best chance at figuring out what the Boar's next move will be."

Explanation finished, Donnie sits back to watch Mikey, Raph, and Usagi blink their way back to full attention. He covers his exasperation with another bite of his omelette. It's perfect, peppery and full of cheese, the way everyone likes it, and every bite makes the warm, well-rested feeling in his chest spread a little farther. He doesn't quite trust it, because this is his life, and the feeling itself is too unfamiliar, but he can't completely ignore it.

Leo pushes his scraped-clean plate away. Donnie makes a note to talk to Leo about this new habit of turning breakfasts into family meetings - it's a good tactic, because then he's guaranteed a captive audience, but it's not the best association with food. "You guys have some ideas, Donnie?"

"A few," Donnie hedges, as April nods, her mouth too full to reply. "I don't — the city might not notice the drain from starting it up, if we're lucky and time it right, but we're not going to find the string right away. Biometrics take a while to track, and we're talking about astronomical distances — so hours, maybe even days. They'll notice if we pull for that long."

"And then they'll come looking." Leo rubs the back of his hand against his forehead. "So, what are your other options?"

Donnie hesitates. He locks his physical tells down right away, so there's no glancing to the side or shifting around on his stool to give him away — but that brief silence does. Leo's eyes sharpen and flick to April. She straightens, her fork and knife held over her plate, then sets them aside and waits.

Leo's gaze never wavers, and even though Donnie's on the outer edge of that focus, a chill works its way through him.

"April?" Leo asks. "Thoughts?"

Donnie feels April wind tight, more aware of her than he's ever been; each muscle coiled tight, anger flaring hot before sinking under guilt. He _could_ step in, and make the suggestion himself. A year ago, he would have. Not today; Leo may not be angry at April, but he still has to deal with her leaving. Donnie needs to stay out of the way.

There's a split second where Donnie feels April's resistance rising, ready to snap at Leo, and he braces himself with a deep breath. Across the table, Mikey and Raph's faces shutter, and even Casey looks wary. Only Usagi is out of sync with the family, but from the angle of his head as he watches, Donnie thinks he's catching up fast.

Then April blows out a short, harsh breath, and picks up her fork again. "We didn't really discuss it," she says, cutting a perfectly square piece of omelette, then cutting it again, and again. "But I think…Kurtzman might have something we can use." She speaks lightly, as if it doesn't pain her at all to say it, but Donnie knows better. Kurtzman is old, Kurtzman is no soldier, even if he's got a Kraang arsenal stashed away in his brownstone. He hates that it's come to this, but there's no better option.

And Leo's going to make April say it.

"You're thinking about whatever Kraang tech he's still got lying around?" Leo says, deliberately slow, just testing the waters. April's nostrils flare, her mouth thins, but she stays silent, still cutting her omelette.

"Like the power cell!" Mikey exclaims, eyes bright, unrepentantly beaming at April when she glares at him. "Nice thinking, April!"

"Well, it's one possibility," Donnie interrupts reflexively. "Like April said, we didn't really talk about it—"

"Kurtzman's a known factor," Leo says smoothly, watching April and not Donnie. "Would one of the power cells give you what you need?" At April's nod, Leo hits the table once with his closed fist. "Then that's Plan A. April, when is he getting back?"

_Very clever_, Donnie thinks. Everyone around the table goes very still as April meets Leo's gaze.

Leo might have taken April aside to yell at her in private, or he could have ordered her into the dojo or even to _meditate_ on her transgressions, but this isn't a punishment. Leo can be scarily creative with those, but this is far subtler: it's a reminder that no one is exempt from the rules, unspoken or not. And whether or not they agree with Leo's orders, or Leo's rules, they all have to obey them. He's reasserting himself, right out in the open, where no one can miss it.

April lets out a long sigh. It's not obedience; April only falls in line when she agrees with an order, and Donnie knows Leo respects that. His brother doesn't want unquestioning troops, not any longer, not now that they all understand. What Leo wants is consideration. Forethought. Caution.

"About two weeks," she says, still holding Leo's gaze. There's fire, banked low, but Donnie's sure that'll be fine with Leo. April can hate this, she can be furious, so long as she holds the line. And well — if April's angry, Leo's finally gotten smart enough to be able to use it. "I'll make the call." April looks at Leo, eyebrows raised.

"He's not a combatant," Leo says, in answer to her unspoken question. "Tell him as little as possible. Just get the power cell."

April relaxes, brief gratitude flashing in her eyes before she looks away, and turns back to her omelette.

Donnie sighs, earning himself a wry look from Leo, and a slight nod. He nods back, just as wry, a slender shaft of pride for how Leo handled the last few minutes sliding through his mind like sunlight. No punishment without mercy, no leadership without compassion.

"Now that's worked out," Leo says, "we need to talk about patrols. I've given it some thought." He pauses — not, Donnie knows, to look around the table and to make sure everyone's paying attention, the way eighteen-year-old Leo would have, and often _did, _but to give Mikey a chance to interrupt.

Which, inevitably, Mikey does.

"Ooh! Ooh! Is April gonna go back on patrol again now that she can, you know?" Mikey makes an expansive gesture with both hands that nearly sends his plate and Usagi's flying, and follows it up with a TARDIS noise. Donnie's twice as sorry now that he missed April's big demonstration, especially when he glances up and finds Raph sinking low into his shell.

"Well put, as always," Leo says dryly. "And yes, April is going back on patrol." Mikey's celebratory fist-pump wilts mid-air when Leo keeps talking. "But not with you. Tonight, you're with me."

"Aw, what? _Why?_ Come _on_, Leo!" The reedy note in Mikey's voice sets Donnie's teeth on edge and his shoulders tightening; rest and food aside, his tolerance for Mikey's whining is still at its usual low. It sounds like Mikey's warming up to a good one, all huge, pleading eyes, but Leo turns to Mikey with a stony face, ready to wait it out rather than cut it off.

_Great_, Donnie thinks, and settles in to wait it out too. He could excuse himself; no one would question him, and he's debating if he should say anything or just push back his chair and go when April slips her hand into his.

The movement, and their hands, are hidden by the table. No one can see, no one has any idea, but all thoughts of leaving vanish. Of course he'll wait Mikey out, now that he has something better to focus on, and the knot forming under his shell loosens.

* * *

"Seriously, Leo?" Mikey says, once Leo catches up to him. "I couldn't get the _cool_ patrol?"

Leo gives him the old _I'm the leader_ look, all narrowed eyes, but Mikey isn't biting. It's not _fair_; April's got _super-_super powers now, and he's stuck going to see the grannies with Leo.

He gets it, he does; they need to talk to Angel, figure out how she got mixed up in all this Boar and Bull crap, and since he's the one who actually _knows_ the grannies, he's got to be the one to put in some face time. The only way he knows Angel is through the pictures on Milagros' wall, but Milagros knows _him_, and that's the in they need.

"You really want to be on a patrol where Raph is in charge?" Leo asks, peering over the roof's ledge to scout the next rooftop. "With Usagi _and_ April? Really, Mikey?"

Mikey mulls that over, tapping his chin. It's not that Raph's a _bad_ leader, especially not on this straightforward stuff. Go here, keep an eye out for weird stuff. If it's their kind of weird, beat the crap out of it and go home. If it's the _new_ weird stuff, haul it back to one of the shelters and do not, repeat, _do not engage. _

Not even Raph's going to argue with Leo now, not after the other night with the Boar and Slash. They all got a good look at the stakes, and as much as Mikey hates to admit it, they're all running scared. Maybe not as scared as Donnie, who's walking around all starey and hunched-over, but at least he's back in the lair, safe and sound.

So yeah, patrol with Raph wouldn't be that bad, and April's going to be on her best behavior for a while. The chances of Raph getting whomped are pretty low — well, whomped by April, that is. Who knows what could happen with Usagi and Raph on the same patrol? Now that he thinks about it, Leo's got a point. Mikey's good where he is.

"What_ever_," he says, because no way is he going to let Leo win that easy, but Leo smirks and bumps his shoulder.

"Glad you see it my way," he says, then nods. "What is it, two more buildings west from here?"

Mikey nods.

"Okay." Leo crouches next to Mikey, eyes all serious. "What do I need to know before we get in there?"

There's about a million things Mikey could say: Milagros is always wearing something purple, she was married twice and has about twenty grandkids but only Angel stayed at home, and she has arthritis real bad in her left hand but she doesn't want people to talk about it.

What he says is, "She's cool. Just follow my lead."

Leo's face says he'd like a little more, but Mikey jerks his head to the west and bounces up on his toes. The air is fresh and cold on his face, but instead of chilling him, it makes him feel bright and easy, like he could fly from one roof to the next. He feels _good_. And maybe Raph and Leo would think he's dumb to feel like this, but they don't understand. Things are getting back to normal. April's back, and she's got _firepower_ this time, and in a couple weeks, Casey and Donnie'll be back too.

And Donnie's got a _plan. _So what if no one really understands it? When have they _ever_ grokked what goes on in Donnie's head? The important thing is that he's got a plan, and he's never let them down. The Boar is _so_ bacon when Donnie's through with it.

Mikey's stomach gives a rumbling twist at that — dinner was like, _two hours_ ago — but he contents himself with the thought of the grannies, and their fridges, just two rooftops away, as he starts to run.

* * *

"So."

Raph looks up to find April watching him as she tightens her vambraces, yanking on the leather straps with her teeth. He waits, tapping one foot on the ground and sighing; he wants to be topside already, running in the cold air and looking for someone who needs a beatdown. But Usagi's still checking over his weapons, and April hasn't finished accessorizing.

"You're the boss," she says, around another strap. "Where're we headed?"

Raph considers as she tugs on her hood. Leo didn't give him too many restrictions — keep a low profile, pick your fights, prioritize getting home safely over handing out some pain — but Raph still chafes against them. He wants to pound someone's face into the pavement, but he doesn't know if that's his own frustration talking, or something else. Something planted in his head. Better to listen to Leo — as much as he hates to admit it, and he knows that's _all_ him — and play it safe.

"I'm thinking we'll start over by the Bowery," he says, once Usagi stands up and April's finished lacing her boots. "Then work our way back to the lair."

It's a compromise; there's a fifty-fifty chance that they'll find Purple Dragons trying to jack an ATM somewhere along the route, and Raph can think of at least four places to go to ground if things get weird.

_Weirder_, he corrects himself. _If things get _weirder.

Usagi gives him a short nod, and April grins as she tugs her hood over her head. "Sounds like a plan," she says, eyes glinting under the black silk. "Shall we?"

Raph's already up the stairs — why bother saying yes, when they could be out the door? — before he realizes that April's not following them.

He starts to yell _Hey, O'Neil, thought you _wanted_ to go on patrol,_ but stops himself. April faces toward the kitchen, head cocked like she's listening for something, and a moment later, Donnie steps into the common room with a mug of coffee in one hand.

Raph watches, annoyed by the delay, as Donnie passes April, his eyes on her the whole time. There's a flicker of movement between them, fast and blurred, and then Donnie's on his way to the lab without a backward look. April takes the stairs two at a time, catching Raph's eyes before sliding past him to leap over the turnstiles.

It takes him a second to understand what he saw, and then Raph blinks, caught between _what the hell _and _well, obviously_. Hands. They were holding hands, the dumbasses.

He's tempted for a second to make a big deal out of it — _good to know the end of the world means you finally made a move, Donnie! — _but decides against it. Casey's always up for a good round of shit-on-Donnie's-life, but Raph doesn't want to wake him up, and Leo and Mikey have already left for their visit to the grannies. Making a big deal out of it would be wasted on Usagi, so Raph tucks that little piece of information away, with a mental note to haul it out later, maybe at breakfast, whenever he's got maximum opportunity for embarrassing Donnie.

"Let's move," he says, as April wheels around and takes the stairs two at a time. She rolls her eyes as she tugs her scarf over her mouth, but that's fine. Raph's got ammunition for later, Donnie's got a plan, and it's going to be a good night.

* * *

"Are you sure, Mikey?" Leo peers into the hallway from his perch on the fire escape. "We can just walk in?"

"Dude, I do it _all the time_," Mikey says airily. "The grannies are the only ones who live on this floor, it's _fine._" When Leo keeps hovering, Mikey groans and swings through the window. "You wanna hang out in the cold? Works for me. More food this way." He listens for Leo's feet to hit the carpet, but Leo stays on the fire escape like a total creeper. "Leo, come _on_."

After another few seconds to make his entrance as _dramatic_ as possible, Leo leaps in and shuts the window behind him. "All right, I'm in. Lead the way."

It's impossible to miss the way Leo sticks to the middle of the hallway, so he's got the most room to defend himself if someone comes at them. Mikey does _not_ tell Leo that the worst that could happen to them is maybe Sandra's dog'll like, _drool_ on them, even though he wants to so badly his mouth itches.

"C'mon, this way," he says instead, pointing down the hallway. "All eight of 'em live here, boom boom boom."

"Convenient," Leo murmurs, squinting at one of the wall lamps. "So you can just eat your way from one end to the other?"

"You got it," Mikey replies as they pass the elevator. His heart speeds up just a little, because it's one of those old models, open-air and only some bars and wire mesh to keep everyone in. If they're gonna be seen, it'll be now — but the elevator shaft stays dark and quiet.

"Okay, here we go." He stops in front of Milagros' apartment and takes a second to smile at the angel — haha, _angel_ — hanging below the spyhole. Well, not just to smile at the angel. He's thinking of how to get out of the apartment once they're inside, in case it all goes ass-up and he and Leo need to beat it.

_Just like Leo would want_. He mentally brushes off his shoulders because he's good, he's _so_ good, and knocks on the door. "Hey, Milagros? It's Mikey. I'm here with my bro Leo. Got a minute?"

There's no answer from the other side of the door. It's late, but not _late-_late, and he knows Milagros likes to watch some talk show at night, so she should be awake. He knocks again, a little louder this time. Leo flinches, flicking glances up and down the hallway.

"Do you really have to be so loud?" he asks. "We're exposed, Mikey."

"Seriously, chill," Mikey says, a little sharper than he means to. "Just give her a minute. Maybe she's in the bathroom."

Leo sighs, shaking his head, and goes back to watching the hallway.

Mikey rolls his eyes. "Milagros? We wanna talk to Angel. She home? No biggie, just wanna ask her a question."

No answer, but the door opens just a crack when Mikey knocks one more time. "Huh. Weird. Hey, Milagros? Your door's open, we're gonna come in, okay?" He sends up a little wish-flare that he's not about to walk in on Milagros in her undies, and grabs the doorknob. His hand sticks when he tries to turn it, like the knob's coated in honey. "Ugh, _gross_, what _is_ this stuff? It feels like —"

"Mikey, get away from the door," says Leo, in a dead, quiet voice. He unsheathes one katana and yanks Mikey back with his other hand.

"Dude!" Mikey yelps, thrown off-balance when Leo lets go of him. He pinwheels his arms to stay standing, smacking both hands into the wall behind him before he can finally straighten up. "What is your damage?"

"Look_,_" Leo says in a whisper, pointing at the door. "_Look_, Mikey."

He doesn't blow a raspberry or roll his eyes, the way he does sometimes when Leo's being a real turd and someone needs to remind him that not _everything_-everything is life or death. He looks, and then steps back, every nerve crackling awake.

"Dude," he says, low, and takes another step back. It's hard to see the slick gleam along the edge of Milagros' door in the half-light of the hallway, especially when you're not looking for it. He's looking now, and he sees it, golden and thick as syrup. It's leaking out of the deadbolt too, a slow ooze that drips down to the doorknob, and then to the floor.

Something touches him, a finger to his spine, _zap_, and he flinches into himself. He's not afraid, not up close, like he was when Leo faced down the Boar — if he's scared, it's far away where he doesn't have to worry about it. What he is, is —

Betrayed.

All Mikey wanted was one place, _one tiny place_, where he could go and forget that he's a big green turtle who fights monsters and robots and aliens. This hallway is where he got a taste of normal, where he could go if things got too crowded at the lair or too weird everywhere else. He'd come here, move furniture around, get fed, watch stupid game shows, and after a few hours he'd stop feeling like there were bruises under his shell. Nothing weird was supposed to touch this hallway, except him.

He swallows, a stale taste coating his tongue, then looks to his left. Now that he knows what to look for, he can see the gleam around every doorframe. Eight doors, eight sticky patches on the old carpet.

It's not _fair_. Mikey pushes the thought down and swings around Leo toward Anna's apartment. He doesn't grab the knob — he doesn't want any more of that crap on him, no way — so he kicks the door instead, again and again, until the wood groans under his feet.

"What are you doing?" Leo hisses. "Mikey, _quit it!_"

Mikey gives the door one last kick, and the wood splits in a long line from top to bottom. Leo has to pull him out of the way again as the wood bows outward into the hallway, and the dark mass behind the door spills out in slow-motion. It's not dark all the way through, so Mikey can see the pale outline of a hand, just a few inches away. Anna's hand, her wedding ring glinting through the clear, honey-colored layers.

Now he's _pissed_, zero to ninety in one second flat. This was _his_ place, he was going to take care of them, _none_ of this would touch them. But it's here, sticky and smelly and inching toward him, ready to suck him in, too.

"Save it," Leo snaps. "We're leaving." He heads for the window they came in, katana still out, and Mikey turns to follow him, nursing the hot rush of anger in his stomach, keeping it primed and ready for when he needs it, but a sudden clank and rumble from way underneath their feet freezes him in place.

The elevator's coming up.

* * *

It's a great night, and even April getting cocky with a landing and slipping in a puddle can't ruin Raph's good mood. It even _helps_, just a little. She goes down swearing, landing so hard Raph watches her bounce before she comes to a stop.

"Wow, that was like, _super-_graceful," he calls down to her from his spot on the fire escape. Usagi coughs into his sleeve, but when Raph glances over his shoulder, Usagi's eyes gleam.

_Yeah_, _don't even try to pretend that wasn't hilarious, _Raph thinks. _That stick in your ass is working its way out, no matter how hard you're trying to keep it in there._

"Fuck off," April says, easing to her feet. "It's slippery down here, so watch your dainty little princess feet, Raph. We're almost home, can't have you getting bruised now."

"Aw, thanks," he says, swinging over the railing. The streetlight at the end of the alley's gone out, so he takes the extra second to make sure he'll land far from any puddles before making his jump. "I didn't know you cared."

"I don't," April shoots back. "I just don't want to deal with Casey if anything -" Her sentence cuts off as Raph lands a few feet away, and she lifts her hand to the little bit of light coming down from the billboard on top of the building.

For all the shit Raph gives her, he doesn't think April is a wimp. He can count the times he's seen her scared on both hands. Now, he watches her shudder and gag, and throw herself away from the puddle she slipped in. She stumbles into a dumpster and whacks her shoulder and head on the metal, but doesn't react. She just stares at her hand, her throat working.

"April? You good?" Raph takes a step closer, and freezes when she waves him back. He smells trash, dirty water, and a dull coppery scent on the edge of the air.

"Don't — don't, you'll step in it," she chokes out, waving vaguely at the puddle she slipped in. The whites of her eyes stand out stark in the darkness. "It's — oh, god, it's everywhere."

"What is?" Raph snaps. He hates guessing games, they always make him feel stupid. "Spit it out, April."

Usagi lands a few feet away, light and easy and so silent even Leo couldn't complain, and sucks a breath through his teeth. "Raphael," he says in a tight voice. "We should leave."

April forgotten, Raph turns around, his good mood shattering. "Why? Because April slipped? It's gross, she'll get over it."

"It's not —" April says. Her voice is shocked flat, beyond scared. She holds up her hand, tilts it to catch the light. All Raph can see is black on black, April's leather gloves shiny with it.

The smell. He couldn't smell it from the fire escape, _Usagi_ couldn't smell it, but now it's everywhere, hot and metallic, and Raph can taste it too, dripping down the back of his throat.

_No, no_, he wants to scream. His voice boils at the back of his throat, and his sai leap into his hands, warm and alive. _This is too close, we're almost home. It can't be here. _

They'd been too pumped to get back to the lair and out of the cold to see how the entire alley is splashed with blood, great splatters of it on the walls, soaking into the gouges in the pavement. It shines, wet and black, inches away from Raph's feet, and the smell — that's everywhere, soaking into his skin, too deep to wash out.

"There," Usagi says, pointing.

Raph doesn't want to look. Nothing good ever comes out of looking.

It's dark, but away from the streetlights, Raph's eyes pick out the bodies easily enough, crooked arms and legs splayed in a circle near the manhole cover. He looks fast, but it's enough to see the tooth and claw marks, the way the open wounds steam a little in the cold air.

Fresh kills.

_Not just that_, Raph thinks. _It's a message. It's starting._


	15. Part Nine

April is no stranger to other people's blood. She knows what it feels like on her skin, in her hair — she even knows how it _tastes_. The smell crawling up her nose and down her throat is darkly, slyly familiar: _hello, April. Here I am. There's no getting away from me. _

She remembers the face of every person she's killed, and she's willing to carry that as a fair trade for being the one to walk away. And she'll take the nightmares, the gut-punch that comes when she wakes up in the middle of the night, gasping and sweating and swinging an imagined knife toward an imaginary enemy. It's the price Splinter told her she would have to pay if she became part of this precarious, shadowed life, and she's paid it, time and again.

This blood is different. She didn't spill it; her tessen and her knife never touched the skin and muscle that have been so carelessly torn apart and left in a stinking alley. It's…tainted, in a way April can't articulate. The people she's killed may not have seen her coming, but they weren't hunted, and she didn't mock them by dragging it out. There's honor in that, something April will never admit that she's proud of.

She's never _played_ with her enemies.

Her mind tries to put distance between her and the empty, ragged bodies in front of her. _They're toys,_ April thinks. _They're dummies. Whatever they are, they're not people anymore. _

It doesn't work. She takes a step closer, and her dark-adjusted eyes pick out curly blonde hair, a butterfly tattoo left undisturbed, wide unblinking eyes. These are _people_, and they were slaughtered, and now their blood is soaking into the silk and leather of her armor.

April gags, the rich taste of blood high in her mouth, and spits to the side. "This is —" she says, and gags again. Usagi makes a sympathetic noise somewhere behind her, but when she straightens up, it's Raph's eyes that she searches out. "This is wrong," she finishes, and Raph nods once, his face half-revolted, half-furious.

"Wrong doesn't even come _close_," he says, breathing hard through his nose. With his shoulders up and his head lowered, he looks like a bull, seconds away from charging.

_Yeah, not going down _that_ road_, April thinks. _One Bull is enough, thank you very much_. A thick belch of laughter tries to force its way up her throat, and she gags again choking it down. She can feel her disgust and panic waiting nearby for the chance to let loose, and she knows if she starts laughing she'll puke, and then she'll start crying, and then — then who knows?

_Then I'll lose my goddamn mind_. She reaches up to scrub her face, and stops at the last second when Raph cuts her a wide-eyed warning glance. "Oh," she says, and her voice echoes dully in her ears. "Yeah. That'd be bad. That'd be really bad." She squeezes her hands into fists, but the blood has already stiffened the leather, and the material is thick and tacky against her fingers.

There's so much blood. April didn't count the bodies, but there's enough blood for there to be five or six bodies — maybe more. Chewed-up, torn apart; if the light was better she'd be able to see grey tendons and red-stained bones where the bodies were opened from throat to belly.

There were _teeth marks_ in some of the bodies. April shudders; the motion starts at her feet and works its way up through her legs and torso and finally ends in a twitchy, unsteady shake of her head.

She swallows down another laugh and clenches her fists tighter, until she can feel her fingernails cutting into her palm through the thin leather. Whatever happens next, she is _not_ going to freak out in the middle of an alley. When she gets back to the lair, she can cry in the shower until the water goes cold, but she is keeping her shit together here and now.

"April?"

She looks up to find Raph staring at her through squinted eyes. He's not quite so ready to charge, but he's still ready to swing. His sai gleam white in the streetlight filtering down to them from half a block away. "Are you with us?"

The question is so un-Raph that April flounders for a reply. He doesn't even sound like himself; there's no belligerence, just something close to Leo's cool authority.

Now she does laugh, dry and unforced. "Yeah, I'm with you guys," she says. With every word, her voice sharpens, takes on a little more life. "Are you seriously trying to sound like _Leo_?"

"Well, it distracted you, right?" Raph says, his shoulders dropping, the squint shifting to a glare. "No one's freaking out on my watch." He spins his sai back into his belt and throws a quick glance back at Usagi. "You okay back there?"

"I am…as well as can be expected," Usagi says, with only a momentary hitch in his voice. More out of habit than anything else, April closes her eyes and pushes, but all she feels is a distant, ebbing warmth, and something that might be a flutter of unease. April doesn't know why she expected anything else, especially now. It was hard enough to tell what Usagi was thinking or feeling, even when April's empathy still effectively encompassed him. Everything is muted with Usagi to begin with, restrained and regulated. He sounds — he sounds like himself, perfectly controlled and unruffled.

April still envies Usagi, whether or not he actually feels that way now.

And Raph is Raph, a hot pulse of anger and disgust flaring through his mind. April clings to the familiar sensation, lets it anchor her back in the alley. Raph is angry; Raph is _always_ angry.

Right now, she should be angry too.

"What are we going to do?" she asks, when she's sure words will come out of her mouth and not that sick laughter. "With them?" She can't bring herself to say _the bodies_; they were people not too long ago, and, maybe foolishly, she wants to let them stay that way a little longer.

None of them talk about what could have done this. Why bother? They've found other corpses over the years, victims of crimes and battles that have nothing to do with them, but this isn't a robbery gone wrong or a grudge turning vicious. This is the Boar, welcoming them home.

Raph shrugs, not dismissively, but honestly confused. April pities him; Raph has a problem with murder at the best of times, and he can barely articulate _why_. This bloody, petty mess is so far beyond Raph's ability to talk about that April's surprised he hasn't started beating up the dumpsters, just to let some of his anger out. Instead, it keeps flaring in his head, like the beacon on a lighthouse.

"Leaving them for your police seems…disrespectful," Usagi says quietly. "And yet…there seems to be little else we can do."

April nods, meeting Usagi's eyes before looking back at Raph. He's still breathing hard, and now that the worst of her panic is safely under control — even though her pulse is still racing and her blood is hot with adrenaline — April can see just how close Raph is to losing it himself. The only reason why he hasn't is because she was going to, and without that —

"We should —" She closes her eyes as the idea forms, and another shudder wracks her. "We should cover them up, at least."

"What, so they're ready for their close-up?" Raph snaps. April opens her eyes to find him glaring at her, eyes bright in the darkness.

_Oh, Raph_, she thinks, her pity stronger now. She keeps her distance, and so does Usagi. "If we make it look like…" Her mouth resists finishing the sentence, because what's she about to suggest is a whole new betrayal of the people lying at her feet, but she pushes ahead, her voice scratching over the words. "They're too close to the lair," she says. "We have to make it look like they weren't killed here. When the police come…" No need to finish. Usagi's face twists, disgust and determination mingled, and he nods once in her direction. "We've got to move them, Raph," she adds gently.

A plan. Good. As long as she can focus on that, she can ignore the feathery beat of her pulse and the way her mouth is filled with too much saliva, and how _dirty_ she feels, inside and out.

"We can't just play interior decorator! We should be —" Raph growls, a long, rough sound that makes the skin on April's back prickle. The cold air has chilled the blood on her pants to a stiff stain, and she tries to ignore it. "For all we know, whatever did this is still around!"

"I'm sure it is," April says. Raph looks at her, eyes wide, mouth curled in a snarl, and now it's April's turn to shrug. "They want to see what we do. How we react."

Usagi makes a soft, emphatic little noise, more eloquently contemptible than an hour of Raph swearing. "It is _filth_," he says. "If it had any honor, it would fight us openly."

April laughs with Raph, twin dry, nasty sounds in the cold alley. "Yeah," says April, thinking of Donnie's white, bewildered stare, and the gouges on Leo's arms. She thinks about falling, and not remembering hitting the ground. "I don't think the Boar knows much about honor."

She waits for something to happen — lightning to strike and blast her away, the ghostly green dogs to tumble off the roof, snapping and howling, or for Slash to creep out of the shadows with his mace on his shoulder.

_No honor means I can't insult it_, she thinks. Her panic tries to rise one last time — _oh god there's blood on me oh the blood on me it's on me never going to wash out going to be on me forever_ — and she bites her tongue, a quick snap, to break the train of thought.

"Right," Raph says, a few long, silent moments later. "Let's get them…let's get them in better shape." He takes a careful step toward the closest body, his face screwed up in concentration.

April swallows again, resisting the urge to spit, and waits until the pain in her tongue disappears. Then she crouches down and slides her hands under a pair of unresisting arms. She tries not to look at its face as she lifts the body and drags it down the alley, toward the abandoned building next door, and doesn't think about how familiar this all is, the blood, the hiding, and the sick taste of her own fear, sliding down the back of her throat.

* * *

With Donnie around, they'd know to the second how much time they have before the elevator reaches them. Right now, all Leo can do is make a best guess and hope it goes right past this floor.

Of course, that would involve _good luck, _and that's usually the one thing they don't have.

There's no cover. They have nowhere to go, and the yellow light of the hallway won't camouflage them. It's got to be the window.

"Mikey, move!" Leo doesn't wait for obedience; he grabs Mikey by the arm and yanks him down the hallway as the elevator clatters its way up the shaft. Once they reach the window, Mikey pulls out of Leo's grip and glares at him, chest heaving in short, angry exhales.

"We can't just leave them!" he hisses. "We have to —"

"We have to _leave_," Leo shoots back, with every ounce of authority he's got. His fingers scrabble for purchase at the window. Just as he's starting to think there's something at work, keeping the window stuck and them inside, the pane slides up and he shoves Mikey toward the fire escape and the icy air.

Behind him, the elevator stops. The sudden absence of sound leaves Leo's ears aching, but he throws himself at the window without looking back. With a little luck — just a little, not even a handful — he'll have disappeared up the fire escape before whoever's getting off the elevator sees him.

At most, he'll be a shadow, vanishing into deeper darkness.

He's halfway out the window, his mind already turning toward focusing Mikey past his anger and getting them to a safe distance when the the elevator gates crashes open, and a light footstep falls on the carpet.

Mikey's still on the fire escape, trying to peer into the hallway, and the two seconds it takes to shove him away means Leo's foot is still on the carpet, in plain view, for those two seconds. Long enough for any hope for _luck_ to vanish completely.

The person behind them says, in a soft, horrified voice, "What have you done?"

Against every instinct and every hour of training, Leo drops back to his feet and turns around.

Angel — it can only be her, round-faced and painfully young — isn't staring at him. Her eyes are fixed the slow, golden spill leaking out of the broken door. She runs her hands through her hair, then clenches her fists. "What have you _done_?" she asks again. Her voice quavers. "Oh, _no._"

"You want to explain what this is?" Leo asks, knowing he's a special kind of ruthless for going after her when she's so obviously frightened. But she's not frightened of _him_, not yet, and he needs to get what information he can before she realizes what's happening, and gets scared of the six-foot turtle with the katana.

"Oh my god," Angel says, still not looking at him. "No, no, no. Get away from her!"

Leo freezes midstep, and drops his heel to the carpet. Angel's looking at him now, dark eyes blazing, and any fear has disappeared. She's furious.

"Leave her alone. Leave them _all_ alone." She points back toward the window. "Get out."

"Hey, Angel, it's just us," says Mikey, crowding through the window and dropping lightly to the hallway floor. "I'm Mikey, and this is my bro, Leo. We just needed to talk to you for a couple seconds, that's all, we're not —"

"I don't care!" Angel yells. Her voice cracks. "You — just get _out_, you'll ruin everything!"

"Ruin _what_?" Leo skirts the edge of the spreading spill to take a step closer. Angel gives him another burning look, and her hands ball into fists. She's ready to fight him, turtle or not, katana or not. Leo softens his voice, and on a burst of intuition, sheathes his katana and holds his hands out. "You came to the lair, you brought a message. We want to know _why_." He feels Mikey nodding beside him, and doesn't have to look back to know Mikey's all wide-eyed innocence. "Can you tell us what's going on here?"

"Don't come any closer," Angel says. Her voice steadies, and now there's a heavy, dogged determination under her words. "You're tainted. You'll ruin everything."

"Tainted by what?" Leo asks. The honey-gone-wrong smell of the resin fills his nose and mouth. He ignores it, and focuses on keeping his own voice reasonable and calm.

Angel's eyes narrow, calculating, then a little of the tension in her shoulders fades. Leo takes another step closer, hands still held out, placating and empty. A gesture of trust. "It promised me, if I carried a message, we'd be safe. I did what it asked. This is supposed to be a safe place, but if the Boar gets in —" She shakes her head. "You need to go," she says, her gaze as pleading now as it was furious a few moments ago. "If you stay here, it'll know and come looking. Just _go_, please."

"Angel," says Mikey. "C'mon, just a couple minutes. Who told you to come to the lair?"

She gives him a look of pure teenage disdain. "The _Bull_?" she drawls. "It wanted me to talk to April O'Neil? Yeah?"

Apparently things aren't so urgent that a nineteen-year-old can't take the opportunity to let them know they're idiots. Leo relaxes a fraction. "And this —" He waves at the hallway, the broken door, the resin creeping slowly toward his feet. "—this is all part of your, what? Reward?"

"It promised to keep us safe if I carried the message," Angel says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Leo does not envy Milagros, not at all.

"And _this_ is how you'll be safe?" Mikey asks. "All stuck in…honey, or whatever? Because that makes _total_ sense."

Angel glares, brows drawn low over her eyes. "Like _any_ of this does," she says, just this side of a snarl. "I did what I had to keep my gran safe. Now you have to _go_." She points toward the window.

"What about you?" When Angel meets his gaze, wary and alert, Leo lets his hands drop to his sides. They're running out of time and there are more important questions he should be asking, but the instinct to protect overrides them all. Angel is _young_, and she's no fighter, no matter how highly she thinks of herself. "You can come back to the lair with us."

Angel scoffs, brushing hair out of her eyes. "Yeah, no thanks. Like I said." She stabs a finger at Leo, then at Mikey. "_Tainted_. Your lair's got the Boar all over it, and so do you. That's why the Bull couldn't get in to talk to April." She draws herself up, then hooks a thumb back toward her door. "I'm all set. Why do you think the door was still open?"

Leo's skin crawls, and beside him, Mikey shifts a little closer. "You're going in there?" Mikey asks. "Into that _stuff_?"

Angel shrugs. "Yeah? Safest place in the city. Right now, at least." She hesitates, the last of her defensiveness falling away. Now she's just a kid, tired and scared. "It won't work for you guys. Sorry."

"Yeah," Leo says heavily. "We get it. Tainted." _If it weren't for bad luck, we'd have no luck at all. _"What does it do?"

Dark eyes meet his. For the first time since Angel got off the elevator, she smiles. It's a sad smile, one that she has no right to wear, and one Leo recognizes from his own family's faces. "It makes people forget," she says. "We'll just disappear till this is over." Now her smile turns sly and knowing. "Best we could hope for, with what's coming."

"What happens if —" Leo shakes his head. It's not worth asking. Donnie won't lose. He won't let himself. Leo has to keep faith in that.

Angel knows the rest of the question, even if Leo doesn't ask it. "Then we all go down together," she says, with another shrug, much more forced than the last. "Now _go_. And don't come back."

"What about Anna?" Mikey asks, nodding at the broken door. "I, uh —"

"She'll be fine," Angel interrupts. "As long as you _leave._" She stares at them, unmoving, unblinking, until Leo nods and pulls Mikey back toward the window. They've gotten nothing, no answers, and his whole self fights the idea of leaving Angel to that silent hallway.

"_Go_," Angel says again. "Just…go. Please."

Mikey protests when Leo hauls him toward the window, but there's no heat to it and he climbs onto the fire escape silently. At the last moment, Leo turns back to Angel, who regards him steadily.

"Will we forget?" he asks.

Angel considers this, then gives him another infuriating shrug. "No idea," she says. "Let me know when it's all over?"

That startles a laugh out of Leo. "Yeah," he says without looking back. "I'll do that." He slides the window shut behind him, and follows Mikey up the fire escape, trying not to imagine Angel stepping into the resin, and the golden layers closing over her head.

They're two blocks away before Leo realizes they never asked where Angel was coming from, and what she'd been doing. Too late now. Too late.

* * *

Donnie times his coffee consumption to a nicety; he's heading back to the kitchen to start another pot, tentatively confident in how the portal is progressing now that he has a known power source to use in his calculations, when Leo and Mikey swing back inside. They're wind-chilled, but his joke about how they should have dressed for their visit to the grannies evaporates from Donnie's mouth once he gets a good look at their faces.

_Oh, no_, he thinks, with no real alarm but a great deal of real resignation. _Another disaster_. His face must have shown it, because Leo holds up his hands, smiling tiredly.

"We're fine," he says. "Our visit was less productive than we hoped, that's all."

Mikey snorts and rubs his arms. "Dude, that is a _major_ understatement." He blows out a long breath. "Anyone want the shower?" He doesn't wait for a reply before loping off in that direction, tugging off his wraps and pads as he goes and dropping them behind him. Donnie almost hollers after him to pick up his mess, but then Leo lays a heavy hand on his shoulder and draws his attention back.

"Got a minute?" Leo asks, eyes clear and guileless. Donnie knows better, and thinks about making up an excuse and hiding in the lab, but ends up nodding, his stomach knotting as Leo guides him back to the kitchen.

"You know, Leo," he says, after Leo nudges him toward a stool. "You've got to stop cornering everyone in the kitchen when you've got something you want to say. Bad associations."

Leo gives him a slight smile before moving toward the electric kettle. "Here I'm guaranteed a captive audience," he says, just like Donnie knew he would. He fills the kettle and sets it back on its stand with a muted click, then turns to Donnie. "At least while there's food around."

"You might want to back off, just so no one gets the wrong idea," Donnie says as the water starts to boil. The low rush is the only sound in the kitchen for a long few moments, while Leo watches him and he tries not to fidget.

He'd hoped to escape this talk, and let the tension between them fade away into nothing. There's no reason to talk it out; he was never angry at Leo to begin with, and Leo's got enough to worry about. Donnie doesn't want to be the one adding more weight to Leo's shell, when even one more worry seems like it'll make that slight hunch in Leo's shoulders permanent.

"I'm sorry," Leo says, so quietly the noise of the kettle nearly drowns it out. "I should have stopped you. I should have fixed what was happening with you and April, and — and I should have known better." He sighs, and rubs the back of his hand against his forehead in an already-familiar gesture. "Boar or not, I've got no excuse."

"As far as excuses go, mind control is a pretty good one, even for this family," Donnie says, trying to radiate something approximating unconcern. Maybe if he doesn't seem worried, Leo will let this go. "I'm not angry, Leo. No need to beat yourself up over this. I'm fine."

"You're _always_ fine, Donnie," says Leo.

"And I've got work to do, so I should get back to that —"

"No." Leo's refusal is so soft, so easily spoken, that someone less used to the nuances of his voice would think it's not an order.

Donnie bristles, a spark of hot frustration igniting in his chest. "_No_? There's nothing to talk about, so me staying here is a waste of time. It's _fine_, Leo, it's all _fine. _Now, if you'll excuse me." He stands up, abandoning his empty mug on the table, and heads toward the door.

"_Donnie_. Sit down."

More than Splinter ever was, Leo's voice is the sound of ultimate authority in Donnie's life. Listening to that voice has saved his life more than a hundred times over the years; now it sends him back to his stool, ready to listen to whatever Leo has to say. He tries to crush his frustration, and just manages to keep it from showing in his voice. "All right," he says, trying to sound like he chose to come back on his own, "what is it?"

"You're _always_ fine," Leo repeats, with new emphasis. He leans back against the kitchen counter and folds his arms over his plastron, watching Donnie with a cool, assessing gaze that somehow manages to convey love, too - an old, patient, clear-eyed love. "Never a problem, never anything that will bust up the family. Someone asks you to do something, you do it. You might yell and complain, but it's all noise." Leo smiles wryly, his eyes going far away for a brief moment. "Sound and fury, signifying nothing."

"If you're going to badly paraphrase Shakespeare," Donnie says, his voice gone reedy and his tongue thick in his mouth, "I'm not sticking around."

"The thing is, you never ask for anything." Leo's gaze sharpens again, still assessing, still affectionate. But there's something else, something dark and very, very sad, hiding behind Leo's eyes.

Donnie looks away, at anything but Leo: at the scratched tabletop, the old stove, the cracked ceiling and the floor tiles that need replacing, and the kettle that clicks off and lets the boiling water fade into silence. Raph was bad enough, dragging all of this into the light; Leo's aim is so much better.

"So when you didn't ask for help this time, I thought it was nothing new." Leo's eyelids flicker; shame and apology. "It was so _easy_ for the Boar to — I'm ashamed. I should have known, I should have done something. But you never ask, and I assumed. I'm _sorry_, Donnie."

"It's fine." Donnie sighs. "I swear, Leo, it's fine, just let it go." He shuts his eyes, longing for his lab, hearing Raph yell _Nothing is broken!_ in his head. How many times is he going to have to go through this? Is it Mikey's turn next? Or maybe Sensei's? How many more times does this bruised spot on his soul have to be pressed before it's allowed to heal? "I've got work to do." He starts to rise, but Leo's quiet laugh makes him pause.

"You _always_ do," says Leo, like he's just discovered something wonderful, his voice almost delighted. "You never stop. Always something else to fix." Leo lets his head fall back and laughs again, brighter this time, a sound Donnie hasn't heard since they were fifteen and all they had to worry about was morning training. "Of course," he says, once his laughter fades. "No wonder it's you, Donnie. I should have seen it before."

"I…" Donnie flounders for a response. "I…Leo, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"There's no one else who could be the Champion," Leo says, rubbing his forehead again, his laughter trailing off into a smile. "You're the only one who won't _stop_, Donnie. Not till the job's done."

Donnie tries to find an argument for that. _Any_ of his brothers would have been a better choice, the way he sees it. Leo's the hero, born and made, ready to sacrifice everything for the right cause; Raph's anger would carry him through any obstacle and out the other side; Mikey is fearless, impossible to predict.

Him? He's just Donnie. Just a nerd, just someone who fixes things. Tenacity is great and all, but it's not heroic. No one ever tells stories about how the knight outlasted the dragon — there's always some great feat that wins the day.

"It should have been you," Donnie says, finally. "Maybe then the Bull would have had something to say. Maybe it would have _helped_."

He doesn't hear Leo move, but he feels Leo's hand on his shoulder, cool and solid. "I think," Leo says, like he's piecing together his reasons as he speaks, "the Bull knows what you're good at."

"What do you mean?" Donnie frowns up at Leo, fighting the childish impulse to just believe Leo, and follow his lead. But they're not kids anymore, and Leo can't fight this battle for him.

"You like impossible things." Donnie keeps frowning, and Leo just smiles, squeezing Donnie's shoulder. "Okay, maybe _like_ is a strong word, but you want to prove them wrong. If someone tells you it can't be done, you grab — I don't know, a toaster and some superglue, and say _wanna bet_?"

There was that one time, though it was a microwave, not a toaster — but Leo keeps talking, and so Donnie keeps his peace, mesmerized by the simple confidence in Leo's voice.

"Look at the retromutagen — no one thought it could be done, the Kraang planned on there being no cure, and you did it. You saved April's dad, Timothy, Martin — you didn't care that it shouldn't have been possible, you just did it."

"It needed to be done," Donnie says. "Someone had to — and well, I thought —"

"And you did it," Leo says, with that tone again, the one that says _of course, isn't it obvious_? He even sounds pleased, like Donnie's a student who just grasped a tangled, occluded concept. "You always do. You don't stop until it's fixed. And you won't now. That's why it had to be you."

"You wouldn't quit either," Donnie chokes out. "None of you would."

Leo sighs. "We all…have breaking points, Donnie." He gives Donnie's shoulder one last squeeze, and then backs away. "You don't. You'll keep going until it's fixed."

"Or I'm dead," Donnie says, as harshly as he can. "That's always an option, Leo." A feeling he doesn't quite recognize — not fear or doubt, but something else entirely, too amorphous to name — fills his chest. "There aren't any stories about what happens to the Champions after."

Leo leans in close, the last of the city's scent and something sweet, like honey, clinging to him. "Then write one," he says, and there's no mistaking it for an order. He takes a deep breath. "If you go down, we all go down with you. You are not on your own in this. And you heard what April said — the Bull will come. When it's time."

Donnie nods, the look in Leo's eyes finally giving him a name for what's building inside him. It's a promise.

He won't stop.

"I'm glad _someone_ has faith in the Bull," he says. "Takes a lot of pressure off me."

Leo's eyes gleam. "It's not the Bull I have faith in," he says.

* * *

Raph's usual stomping down the stairs wakes Casey out of a fitful doze. He sits up, rubbing at his eyes and ready to bitch Raph out ten ways to Sunday for interrupting his beauty sleep, but he gets a good look at Raph's face and decides against it. Raph looks _rough_, like he's about twenty years older than when he left, his hands balled into massive fists.

Casey thinks, _Jesus, it's gotta be Slash_, and throws off his covers. He sees April stalk away toward the bathroom, moving all stiff like every joint hurts, and Usagi drifts off toward the kitchen, but all he really sees is Raph, green eyes hot enough to burn whatever they look at.

"You good?" Casey asks, low, when he gets close to Raph. They're alone in the common room now — the turtles are all in the kitchen, and Usagi's with them, and April's already disappeared down the hall — and he could hug Raph if he wanted to, but something tells him to keep some distance, at least till Raph talks and he can get a read on how bad this is.

If it was Slash, it's _real_ bad.

Raph does something complicated with his head, like a nod and a shake and a twitch all at once, and gusts out a long sigh. "Yeah, I'm good," he says, and unclenches his fists. "Totally good. Peachy."

"Uh huh," Casey says. "And I'm totally convinced. What's goin' on?"

Raph glares, his lip peeling back from his teeth, but Casey just raises his eyebrows and waits. He figures it wasn't Slash, because April and Usagi walked back into the lair on their own, and Raph doesn't look like he's about to murder half the city. Still, better to wait it out and see.

"Had a little surprise waiting for us when we headed back," Raph says, stripping off his wraps. Casey's eyes track the jerky movements of Raph's fingers, and he doesn't clock right away that the wraps are brown-ish red with half-dried blood.

"Dude," he says, fear hitting him square in the chest. "What happened? Are you okay?" Now a whole pile of guilt joins the fear-party, because while Casey was sacked out on the couch, Raph was —

"I'm _fine_," Raph snaps, yanking off the last of his wraps and closing his fist around them. "I gotta talk to Leo."

"_Raph. _Seriously, man —"

"Do you _ever_ shut up?" Without waiting for an answer — which, for the record, would be _no_ — Raph grabs him by the neck and kisses him, hard and with too many teeth. Casey's too distracted by the kiss to finish his sentence when Raph finally lets him go. "I'll tell you everything later," he says. "But right now, I gotta talk to Leo, okay?"

Casey licks his lips, tasting Raph and cold wind, and nods. He can get the full rundown later, even if he'd rather get it out of Raph now and get started on making that pinched look disappear. "Fine, but you're gonna follow up, right? 'Cause I got needs and —"

"Oh my _god_," Raph says, with a truly epic eyeroll, but he's smiling and trying to hide it. "You're ridiculous."

"You love it," Casey shoots back, the guilt and fear rolling back a little, even if his worry stays right where it is. "Your room later?"

Raph nods, starts to turn away, then turns back with a thoughtful look that sits uneasily on his broad features. "You should go check on April. She's fine," he adds, when Casey stiffens. "She just might need to talk or something." Without another word, he heads heavy-footed for the kitchen, his fist still balled around his bloody wraps.

When Casey finds April, she's freshly showered, wrapped in an old towel, and scrubbing her arms over the sink.

He debates a wolf-whistle, because times may have changed but April still looks awesome. More importantly, it's one of the many things guaranteed to get April out of whatever funk she's in, because she'll be too busy yelling at him to be pissed off. Then he sees how red her arms are, scrubbed raw and getting rawer, and he nearly rips his bandages crossing the bathroom and yanking the soap out of her hand.

"Jesus _Christ_, April," he says. "What the _hell_ happened out there?"

April whirls around, wet hair sticking to her face and neck, and oh, _shit_, her eyes are red and bloodshot, her face swollen from crying. "The _Boar_," she hisses through clenched teeth. "It fucking — it — _shit_, I can't even —" She plants her hands on Casey's chest and shoves him back.

All of Casey's alarms are going off, lights flashing and sirens blaring on the inside of his brain. Raph may deal with awful shit terribly in the moment, but he can lock it down fast and get over it — one big blow-up, and he's fine. April can't. She needs to let it loose right away. Give her a job and she's fine until it's over, but when all that anger or fear unknots, it's like Yellowstone blowing its top. Casey would know — he's the same damn way.

"Hey," he says, reaching out only to get his hand slapped away. April slumps down over the sink, her scrubbed-raw hands clutching the porcelain until it creaks. The only sound in the room is the hard scrape of her breathing.

"Get out, Casey," April says. She swipes her hand under her nose and sniffs without looking up. "I'm fine."

"Do you know how sick I am of hearin' everyone in this family say they're _fine_?" Casey snaps. "How hard is it to say _no, I'm not, I'm scared shitless_?"

"Oh, that's _rich_," April snarls back, glaring at him through the wet tangles of her hair. "Coming from _you_, Casey Jones, _mystical badass_." She delivers that last line in her snottiest voice, loud enough for the echoes to fill the bathroom.

Casey keeps his cool for all of three seconds, then bursts out laughing. "Wow, _awesome_ comeback," he says, wheezing. "Tenth grade called, it wants its insults back."

April pulls in a huge breath, no doubt ready to let him have it with all barrels, but Casey knows she's never been able to keep a straight face once he starts laughing. Already her mouth is twitching; she's trying like hell to hold on to being pissed at him, but he keeps laughing, and finally she gives in and laughs too, all quiet and watery.

When he creeps up and wraps an arm around her bare shoulders, she doesn't resist, but lets him tug her tight against his good side. After a moment, she leans her head on his shoulder, and sniffs again.

She's warm and steady, like she always has been, and for the long moment before April starts talking, Casey's beyond grateful that they still have this. Sure, he's got Raph now, and she and Donnie finally got their heads out of their asses, but before all that, there was April and Casey, dumb kids trying to live in two worlds. That foundation's going nowhere.

April rubs her arm and winces. "It wasn't the greatest night," she says.

Casey huffs. "Yeah, I'm gettin' that feeling." He tilts his head to try and look her in the eye, but only sees the curve of her cheek and the wet strands of her hair. "You want to talk about it?"

"Not really," April says. She sighs, and leans into him a little harder. Casey tightens his grip on her shoulder. "It killed seven people," she says. "We found them, right by the entrance to the lair. They were…it ripped them apart, and I — I got their blood on me. I can still feel it."

That only answers half of Casey's questions. He could try to ease the rest of it out of her, let her cry out the worst of it. Then April shudders, and Casey lets the questions go. Now the look on Raph's face makes sense, and Casey wants nothing more than to get his gear on and head topside, and beat the ever-loving shit out of the Boar and all its buddies.

_And you'd last about five seconds, Jones, _he tells himself. It's true, but it doesn't change how badly he wants to break something, just for the look on Raph's face and for the way April's shudder turns into a shiver that won't stop.

"I think it was _eating _them," she says, and starts to cry. It's a slow leak; Casey doubts she's got much left in her, but he turns her head into his chest and lets her cry into his shirt, and thinks about his bat coming down on Slash's face, and breaking his stick on Karai's back. He's never wanted to kill someone before, and the feeling is as jagged as a piece of broken glass, but just this once, he thinks he would, if he had the chance.

"You're gonna be okay," he says inanely, and kisses the top of her head. "You're April O'Neil, badass kunoichi and the terror of Biology 103. You're good, April, you're great."

She lets out another watery laugh and gives him a tight, awkward hug. "You're not bad either," she says, her voice all thick from her stuffed nose.

"I'm _awesome_," Casey says, on reflex, grinning at himself in the mirror when April laughs again.

The door to the bathroom opens with a rusty squeal from the hinges. Casey watches Donnie's reflection duck through the doorframe, his face all creasy, worry spilling out of him. He hesitates, watching Casey and April, but April doesn't wait. She gives Casey one last squeeze before she slides out of the circle of his arm and heads straight for Donnie.

Casey sidles past them, suppressing every comment that comes to mind — there are some moments even he knows not to ruin. He does look back before he lets the door close behind him, just in time to watch April wrap her arms around Donnie's neck, and Donnie to lean his head on April's. And he sees Donnie's hand rise, pausing only a little before cupping April's head and stroking her wet hair. They don't say anything, but Casey knows they don't need to. They never really have.

So he lets the door close, rubs at his bandages, and goes off in search of Raph. It's going to be a long night.


	16. Part Ten

**_March 29th. _**

"Y'know," says Mikey. "Kurtzman always seemed kinda creepy to me."

Raph turns his head slightly to glance Mikey's way, but Mikey's not looking at him. He's gnawing on his thumb, staring at the alley under them without any real expression on his face.

"Yeah?" Raph prompts, after Mikey's been quiet too long. "You want to get a little more in-depth, Mikey?"

Mikey shrugs, still gnawing his thumb, and doesn't answer. Raph sighs, but doesn't push him. To tell the truth, Raph's just relieved Mikey started up a conversation on his own. For the past two weeks — ever since Leo and Mikey dragged their asses back from the grannies', full of more bad news — Mikey's alternated between sulking in his room or being extra-clingy, draping himself over whoever's in reach and whining when they try to get untangled. He's been this way as long as Raph can remember, but he's never taken it so personally when someone shoves him away. There's something desperate in the way Mikey clings, and he's angry when you walk away from him now.

It might just be Mikey trying to work through the crap with the grannies - which was bad, Raph's not denying it - but Raph wonders if it's not the Boar, pushing Mikey, just a little bit. The only thing keeping him from going straight to a worst-case scenario is that pretty much everyone else has been acting like jerks too.

Everyone's on edge, and the close quarters for the past two weeks haven't been helping. Leo put a stop to patrols once Raph told him about the bodies, and the last time any of them went topside was later that night, when Leo hauled Raph, Mikey, and Usagi up to move the bodies farther away from the lair. The last thing Raph wanted was to go anywhere _near_ those bodies again, but he understood. And, selfishly, he knew it was his last chance for fresh air for a while. He knew better than to ignore the chance.

But when they got there, the bodies were gone, and the alley scrubbed clean. Like, eat-off-the-ground clean. That, more than realizing what April had slipped in, more than seeing the bodies piled at the end of the alley, makes Raph want to scream and pound his head against a wall.

He doesn't blame Leo and Mikey for getting freaked — he would've been, if he'd had to face that resin crap — but there had been _teeth-marks_ in the bodies.

_We got the crap end of the deal_, he thinks, and looks up at the night sky. The air's starting to turn fresh — not clear, not in the city, but Raph can smell spring, just around the corner. Dumbass frat boys have been wearing shorts for almost a month, and soon, what passes for gardens here in the city will start blooming.

And there _still_ will have been bodies in an alley, waiting for Raph when he and his family came home.

He shoves the thought away, knowing the image of raw, exposed muscle will creep up on him soon enough, and folds his arms over his plastron. April's got five more minutes before he climbs down to haul her skinny ass out of there. He's not going to say it when they're two floors below the guy's apartment, but Kurtzman's not his favorite human either. Having one nerd in his life is almost too much as it is; add in some old guy who dresses like he just walked out of a bad detective movie and who likes to hint at his _relations with extraterrestrials_ and Raph's way past his limit.

Kurtzman's got his uses, though. And if he's got a power cell, then that's one less thing that Donnie's got to worry about.

"I'm cold," Mikey says, out of nowhere.

"We could go down," Raph suggests, glad for the distraction. At this point, even Mikey whining is better than waiting for his brain to surprise him with another glimpse of internal organs that aren't so internal anymore. "Kurtzman's got heat. He won't mind."

Mikey shrugs again and keeps chewing on his thumb.

Raph nearly yanks Mikey around by the mask tails to get him to stop acting like some weird emo kid, but he manages to get the impulse under the surface. "Come on," he says. "We can make sure Kurtzman's not asking April for a blood sample or anything."

It's not a good joke, but it gets Mikey bouncing toward the fire escape without another word, and silently climbing down the fire escape. "Yeah, you lead the way," Raph mutters to himself, then follows Mikey down. He makes a quick scan of the alley, and the roofs and streets beyond, before he pulls himself into Kurtzman's warm living room. Just a few cars passing by, a couple kids smoking on a stoop down the block. Nothing to worry about.

_Don't even think it_, Raph warns himself. _Too easy to jinx everything now_.

He slides past the blackout curtains and tugs the window closed, wincing as it squeals in its runners. Mikey doesn't look away from the front windows, but the way his stance relaxes means he knows Raph's here. The living room is almost humid, both radiators cranking at full blast. Raph wonders why they didn't decide to keep watch up here to begin with, until he turns around and comes face-to-face with a full-color photo of Kraang Prime, its mouth wide open.

_Oh yeah, _Raph thinks, and flips the photo over. _That's why._ Maybe Mikey does have a point with that whole Kurtzman-is-creepy thing — his apartment's still a museum to all things Kraang, one of the _many_ things Raph would be happy to erase from his brain forever. No doubt April does too, but if she can handle being here, so can they.

As Raph locks the window, April looks up from her spot at the kitchen table, where she's elbows-deep in a cardboard box. She gives him a brief, tight smile and blows her bangs out of her eyes. "Glad you guys decided to join us. You can keep a lookout from the window, right?"

Leo didn't make anyone in particular leader of this little trip, but the fact that it's science-related means that April's taken point. Not that Raph minds. Leading doesn't quite have the same thrill anymore, and hasn't since he had to direct April and Usagi on how to move a pile of dead bodies. Just one more thing all this Boar and Bull magic crap has ruined.

He leans against the wall, positioned so the radiator's at his back and he can see — but not _be_ seen — through the crack in the curtains. The smokers have gone inside, a few more lights in the apartment buildings have gone out. It's getting late.

_"I want you back by one am," Leo said. "No delays — for _anything_, Raph. Leave the Purple Dragons for another day." _

Raph definitely didn't say _yeah, if there _is_ another day, _but he hadn't needed to. Leo knows pretty much everything he could say by now. Why waste the air?

"So," comes Kurtzman's voice, floating from the direction of the kitchen, "as I was saying, April, when I got your call, I pulled everything I had out of storage, just in case there was something else you needed." He shuffles out of the kitchen a moment later, with a heavy tray balanced on both hands. Raph's stomach growls as the smell of toast and fried eggs hits his nose. Kraang obsession or not, Kurtzman does make good breakfast. Raph feels Mikey's attention hone in on the food, but he stays at his window. Leo'd be so proud. "Ah, gentlemen." Kurtzman sets the tray down next to the box and spreads his hands wide. "Good thing I made extra. Help yourselves!"

It's hard to think of a guy as creepy when he makes you breakfast whenever you come over, on top of helping you save the world. Raph looks back at Mikey over his shoulder and jerks his head at the table. "Mikey, you go first. I'll keep an eye on things."

He doesn't have to tell Mikey twice; a few seconds later, he hears Mikey tearing into the toast, and ignores his stomach growling. There'll be enough left for him — Mikey knows what'll happen if there's not.

"Anyways, April," says Kurtzman. "I picked up a few of the Kraang weapons —"

"I saw." April probably sounds just fine to Kurtzman, but Raph hears the sour note below her voice. Before they left, Casey had asked Raph if he wanted to bet on whether or not April would give Leo the silent treatment once they got back. He regrets not taking it now. He could've used the money. "We just need the power cells."

Kurtzman holds up his hands and steps away from the table. "Better safe than sorry, I thought," he says. "But that's what I've got. You're welcome to any of it."

"The power cells are fine." April stands up, one in each hand. She's frowning, but she smooths her face when she faces Kurtzman. Even manages a smile that doesn't look like she just stepped in crap. "I appreciate this," she says. "Seriously. Especially on such short notice. Thanks. I'll bring this back as soon as —"

"No rush." Kurtzman turns his own smile from April, to Mikey, and then to Raph. "Just happy to be of help. Been too long since I got to be part of anything exciting."

Clearly the guy's angling for a hint, but April just turns up the bland smile and tucks the power cells away in her bag. "Yeah, well, I doubt testing a new power source for the lair counts as exciting, but I'll let you know if anything explodes." She doesn't even bat an eyelid, and there's no over-acting. If Raph didn't know better, he'd believe her just as easily as Kurtzman does.

Kurtzman laughs, and pats April on the shoulder. "You do that. Always good to see you, April. Keep in touch." He sticks a hand at Mikey, who shakes with his mouth full of toast and egg, and nods at Raph. "You all take care now."

Raph waves over his shoulder, already fighting with the window lock. One by one, they slip out to the fire escape, with April turning around to wave while Kurtzman shuts and locks the window, and then they climb to the roof, with Raph at the rear and April taking point.

"Ugh," Mikey mutters, shaking his hand. "I'm gonna have to wash the old off when we get back to the lair."

"There's old all over that toast, Mikey. I don't see it bothering you now," April says, glancing back with a sly smile. With every step they take away from Kurtzman's apartment, Raph watches the barely-noticeable tension leaving her back. Leo's punishment is over, and they've got the power cells. If they make it back fast enough, Raph might still be able to sucker Casey into that bet.

"Oh _man_," Mikey whines. "I didn't even _think _of that. Gross. Raph, you take the rest."

"Thanks, numbnuts." Raph catches the toast one-handed, grinning when he realizes there's an egg inside it. "Your loss." In the middle of his first bite, he realizes that April didn't touch the food while they were in the apartment. _Crap_. "So, April, you want any of this?"

She shakes her head, scouting the next rooftop. "I don't have Mikey's aversion to _old_, but I'm good. Thanks though." She pauses, one foot in the air, then turns back to Raph. "It's just after eleven," she says, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah?" Raph swallows the rest of the sandwich. "So?" He thinks about reminding her that Donnie's waiting for her back at the lair, but holds back at the last second. He wants maximum humiliation potential.

"Well," April says, drawing out the word. "There's enough time for an errand, if you guys are up for it."

Normally Raph is all about ignoring what Leo tells him to do, unless Leo's telling him to break someone's face, but he shakes his head. Mikey, who's in the middle of nodding, starts to shake his head as well when Raph glares at him. "We got the power cells, we should head back," he says. "We don't have time for mysterious _errands_, April." He's not sure why she's beating around the bush like this; one of the things he likes about April is that she doesn't bullshit anyone. If she wants something, she goes and gets it. "Let's head back."

April rolls her eyes, and plants her feet. "I want to go to my _apartment_," she says.

"Yeah, _no_," says Mikey, and Raph has to agree. The last time they were in April's apartment, Casey and Donnie were bleeding all over the floor and the whole place smelled like shit — even before he hauled Karai in. April's apartment is the last place he wants to be.

April gives Mikey the shitlook, hard enough to make Mikey back up a couple steps. "I really doubt anything's camped out there waiting for us," she says. "And you guys may not care, but I wasn't expecting to spend a month in the lair with just a backpack and my laptop. I need clothes, I need to check my mail — you know, _life_ stuff."

Raph opens his mouth, but April rolls her eyes again, pulls off her bag, and tosses it to Raph. The two seconds it takes for him to catch it and make sure the power cells aren't damaged is all the time it takes for April to leap to the next rooftop and sprint out of sight.

"April!" he bellows, ignoring Mikey shushing him. "Get your ass — oh my god, seriously?"

She keeps running, not even looking back.

"Oh my _god_," Raph says again, throwing the bag's strap over his shoulder. Leo'll be pissed they went off mission, but Raph doesn't have a word for what he'll be if they let April go off on her own. "Is everyone else in this family an idiot except me?"

"Less talking, more running!" Mikey says, already sprinting to the edge of the roof. "She's got a head start, dude!"

* * *

April's apartment is a New York treasure; rent-controlled, everything but internet and cable included, and on the third floor of a building that holds an antique store and its storage. No neighbors, no loud parties — she doesn't know how Second Time Around stays open, but she's grateful, because no one else she knows has a two-bedroom in this neighborhood for less than three times what she's paying.

Her dad probably had something to do with it, but she doesn't think about that. She can't. If she thinks about her dad now, she won't be able to stop, and she has to keep her head clear. No drowning in _what if_s allowed.

From the building across the street, she scans the alleys and rooftops, and waits for Raph and Mikey to catch up with her. When they do, not even breathing hard, she keeps her eyes on the street. Her own heart's still going double-time, but she doesn't think she did too badly for someone who's been out of the fight for almost two months.

"I didn't think I had _that_ much of a head start," she says when Raph crouches next to her. "You guys getting slow in your old age?"

"Don't even start," Raph snaps. "This is stupid, April. Why not just go get new clothes? You know, in the daytime? Why do you need this old crap?"

He has a point. Leo would make an exception to the lockdown rule if she argued hard enough, and money's not an issue. But she wants _her_ clothes, the ones she bought when she was a just a vigilante pretending to be a grad student. Funny, how the past two months have made the Kraang and the Foot look small.

Well, maybe not the Kraang. Kurtzman's apartment is too fresh in her head for that, with sharp-toothed pink faces staring at her no matter where she turned.

"Because they're _mine_, Raph," she says, and ignores him when he scoffs.

Mikey comes up behind them. "Streets're clear," he says. "No one's coming."

"All right, let's do this." Raph stands up, one foot braced on the roof's ledge. "We're in and out, five minutes, so move fast, April."

The last thing April wants to do is argue with Raph when he's decided he's in charge, so she takes the jump, landing heavy and skidding on the gravel. She nearly loses her balance, but Mikey steadies her with a hand on her shoulder. She hadn't even heard him land.

"Thanks," she says, and gets a tight smile back before she swings down to the fire escape, and jimmies her bedroom window open to let herself in.

Everything's how she left it: her bed unmade, her closet door open, the bag of cotton balls on the counter in the bathroom. The only thing that's changed is the thin layer of dust over every flat surface. Someone — Donnie, probably — remembered to turn down the heat before they left, and the air is stale and cool.

"Four and a half minutes," Raph says from the window. "Chop, chop, April."

_Shut up,_ _asshole_, she thinks, but doesn't say anything. She digs into her closet for a duffle, and then starts heaping clothes into it, heavy leggings and thick wool sweaters and her Frye boots. When she turns to her dresser to grab a handful of underwear, she hears something shift, faintly, on the other side of her bedroom door.

She freezes, one arm wrist-deep in panties and bras, and looks back toward Raph. His eyes are narrowed to slits, his mouth a thin line. Guilt flashes through her — she brought them here, it's her fault if something goes wrong — and then anger replaces it. This is her _apartment_. Her _home_. It's already been invaded once; the difference now is that she has a whole new way to fight back.

Two weeks of working with Splinter and Leo have given her a fundamental understanding of her new abilities; they're not predictable yet, but April can sense the underlying pattern, just out of reach of her comprehension. What she does know is that when she calls, the power will come; blunt, inexorable, merciless, unfurling like ocean waves under her skin.

April nods to Raph and Mikey, and turns toward the door. She knows exactly what floorboards to avoid as she moves, and doesn't make a sound until her hand falls on the doorknob. There, she waits, listening — and the shift comes again, a quiet rustle of fabric, like someone's changing position on the couch.

She takes a moment to swallow down her anger — this is _her_ apartment — and throws open the door, pulling her tessen free with her other hand, ready to let loose a concussion at the first sign of trouble.

Her brain is so ready for the attack that it takes a moment for the adrenaline to clear and let April see who, exactly, is cringing away from her on the couch.

"You?" April says, completely flummoxed, letting her tessen fall to her side. "But you — what the _hell_ are you doing in my apartment?"

"Angel!" Mikey says over April's shoulders. "What's up?"

April spares Mikey a bewildered glance, then moves into the living room to let Raph shoulder his way inside. "You said you were —"

The girl on the couch holds up her hands, looking more miserable and exhausted than a kid has any right to look. She's wearing one of April's hoodies, the one April keeps at the kitchen table for when she's up late working, and a pair of baggy sweatpants. The huge clothes only make her look smaller and more afraid. "I didn't have anywhere else to go," she says, quiet but defiant. "It didn't _work_. I couldn't hide, because of _you!_" She jabs a finger in Mikey's direction, dark eyes bright with tears, and takes a deep, hiccuping breath as Mikey flinches guiltily. "I _told_ you, you'd screw it up, and now I can't — Gran —"

April shoves her tessen back into its sheath and yanks back her hood. "What are you talking about?" she asks, even as the evidence starts to form a clear picture in her head. Some of the Bull's magic protected the grannies, as long as they weren't tainted. Tainted, like April and the turtles. Apparently, proximity alone was enough for that to happen.

A wave of heavy relief swamps her; thank god she pushed the issue and came here - it's a safe neighborhood, but Angel's still just a kid, and it's their fault she's stuck out here. That she's _tainted._ "You couldn't…hide?" she adds, groping for the right word.

Angel nods, drawing her knees up to her chest. "And no one _remembered_ me," she says. "I tried to go to my friends and to school and they had no idea who I was. It's like — it's like it almost worked, but not all the way, and now no one knows me." She drags her hand over her mouth, eyes slanting away from April and the turtles.

"No one but us." Mikey flops onto the couch next to Angel, not touching her, but beaming at her like she's his long-lost best friend. April watches Angel unbend a little under the force of his smile. It's hard for April to resist Mikey when he's trying to charm, after a decade building up an immunity, and Angel doesn't stand a chance. "So, you came here? How'd you even know this was April's place? 'Cause if you just figured it out on your own, that's some awesome detective work."

Angel smiles a little at that, her attention totally on Mikey. "It wasn't that, it was before, the Bull —" She flashes a guilty look at April, who only sighs and shrugs.

"It's fine, Angel," she says. "But why here? I mean, you could've just come to the lair. We wouldn't have chased you off." And it's true; Leo would have gone all pinchy about security, but his mother hen instincts would take over. They've taken in stray kids before.

"I tried." Angel's smile disappears. Her hands twist miserably in the pocket of April's hoodie. "I went to the manhole I used before, when I came to talk to you, but there was — there was blood everywhere, and I didn't…" She huddles deeper into the couch and closes her eyes.

April meets Raph's eyes, her stomach dropping. _More?_ she mouths, and Raph grimaces, his teeth bared.

"It's fine, now, my friend!" says Mikey. He punches Angel in the knee, his smile still in place. "We're gonna take you back to the lair, you'll love it, I got some Orange Crush and there's a hot tub, and —"

"Let's _go_," says Raph. "We need to get moving."

Angel's posture closes up again at the sound of Raph's voice. Mikey shoots him a cold look, all _dude, don't harsh my vibe_, but Raph just makes a hurry-up gesture and stomps back into the bedroom. April closes her eyes; when she opens them, she holds out her hand to Angel.

"Come on," she says. "I don't know what you've been eating, but there's pizza at the lair. And keep the hoodie, it's a cold run back."

* * *

Splinter sets his cup to the side, then folds his hands on the table. "How goes Donatello's work?" he asks, the first time he's spoken the whole time he's been in the kitchen.

Leo looks up from the sandwich he's putting together — because Donnie _will_ eat, even if Leo has to stand over him till he does — and tries to read Splinter's expression. Splinter gives nothing away, regarding Leo with clear, sharp eyes until Leo turns back to the sandwich. The curiosity about Donnie's work — which neither of them understand, and both Leo and his father know it — feels forced, asked as much out of obligation as actual interest.

"It's…progressing," Leo answers eventually, slicing the sandwich and rescuing a piece of tomato that falls to the counter. He pops it into his mouth, and while he's savoring the cool, tart juices, he tells himself to ignore the slight edge in Splinter's voice. Now is not the time to wonder why, and when, the air between Splinter and Donnie froze over, no matter how much it grates that Splinter won't ask Donnie himself, and relies on Leo to do it. It'll be one more thing for Leo to fix once this is all over.

"Once April gets back with the power cells, we should be in business," he says. The sandwich goes on a place, along with two pickles and half an apple, and Leo points himself toward the door. "I'll be back, once he eats."

Splinter nods, then pours himself another cup of tea. Leo hesitates, then adds the other half of the apple to the plate and heads for the lab. In the common room, Usagi looks up as Leo passes, offers him a quiet smile, and goes back to his book. A few feet away, Casey flips through the channels, frowning at Fox News, and doesn't even glance Leo's way.

And Donnie — Donnie's still where Leo left him, but instead of typing, he's scratching away on a notepad, muttering to himself.

"Dinner is served," says Leo, shoving the plate under Donnie's nose. "And I'm not leaving till you've eaten everything."

Donnie sniffs, but sets his notepad and pencil to the side and picks up one of the pickles. "Path of least resistance," he says, brandishing it at Leo.

"Whatever gets you to eat," Leo replies. He drops into a free chair — not April's, he's learned that lesson the hard way — and folds his hands over his plastron, then leans back to stare at the ceiling. The only sounds are Donnie eating, quickly but neatly, and the steady tick-tick of the long-empty cryo unit on the far side of the lab. Leo lets the near-silence lull him, lets his eyes slide half-closed, and considers the question of April's powers, and how to deploy them.

He's worked her to near-exhaustion every day for the past two weeks, trying to find her new limits. She's reached the point where she can summon the concussion on command, with enough strength to topple Raph, but Leo isn't ready to trust it in full battle. Adrenaline does funny things to everyone's control, and April's temper adds another layer of complications. But Leo's hard-pressed to _not_ use it as a weapon, even one surrounded by so many unknowns. It is, after all, the only one they have that feels remotely like it could level the playing field, and a dark, petty part of him wants to see April unleash it on Slash.

_Or Karai_, he thinks, and pushes the thought away as unworthy.

"S'good," Donnie says through a mouthful, holding up the last bite of his sandwich and distracting Leo from any more thoughts of Karai. "You added bacon," he adds, a little guilty, before cramming the last bite in his mouth and giving Leo two thumbs' up.

Leo grins back. He's well-aware of Donnie's conflicted relationship with meat in general, and bacon in particular, but adding bacon seemed…_contextually appropriate_. That's an unworthy thought too, but Leo doesn't care.

"Glad you liked it. See how easy that was?" He stretches, still grinning as Donnie huffs and waves him away.

"Yeah, yeah, gloat all you want, just do it somewhere else. I've got to figure this out before April gets back with the power cells. But…thanks."

Leo shrugs as he picks up the plate, privately pleased to see that Donnie ate everything, down to the apple core and seeds. This close, he can see every detail of Donnie's exhaustion — the dark circles under his mask, the slumped shoulders — but he sees how many of those details _aren't_ there. Donnie is stressed, running on too little sleep and not enough coffee, but he doesn't look _wrecked_, not the way he did a few weeks ago.

_Don't have to wonder too much about why_, Leo thinks, his quiet pleasure turning smug as he heads for the door. His room shares a wall with Donnie's, and even if it didn't, April hasn't exactly been trying to hide where she's sleeping every night.

"They're back," says Donnie, when Leo has one foot out the door. "April and the others," he amends, standing and following Leo out the lab, a wide, soft smile creasing his face.

When they get to the common room, no one but Casey and Usagi are there, and Donnie turns to Leo with a frown, wringing his hands in front of his chest. "I thought I heard them," he says. "I mean, I heard April, and I thought —" He shuts his mouth as Mikey's voice echoes down the tunnel and floats over the turnstiles.

Leo winces, and makes a note to haul Mikey in for some meditation. He can't make out any of what Mikey's saying, but it's too loud, and Mikey needs a refresher in _stillness_.

"Oh, there they are," says Donnie, relaxing as Casey sits up and angles toward the turnstiles. His smile is back, brighter now that April's back and bringing _science_.

"— and we've got a _sweet_ gaming system! Whatever you want, we got — my bro Donnie, he downloaded like, every game, so if it's Castlevania you want —" Mikey bounds into the light, pausing for breath long enough to jump over the turnstiles. "— then it's Castlevania you'll get. Do you like Tomb Raider? You look like you like Tomb Raider."

"I don't really play video games," says the girl behind him, her voice bemused and her face hidden by a hood.

Leo's katana are in the dojo, but he has the kunai in his belt in his hand before he recognizes the girl, and sucks in a heavy breath. _Damn_, he thinks, the word _tainted_ moving in guilty circles through his head.

"It's fine! She's with us!" April yells, coming up fast behind the girl, one hand held up, while Donnie says "Angel?" and Casey waves cheerfully and shuts off the TV. "Sorry, Leo, I told Mikey to text you."

"That was your first mistake," Raph says, heaving himself over the turnstiles and shoving a bag into April's arms.

Mikey ducks his head, sheepish but not really ashamed, and tugs Angel into the lair. "So! Angel, meet my bros — that's Donnie, and you already met Lethal Weapon over there." Leo slides the kunai back into his belt, and sends a glare April's way. "The bun's Usagi — I know, he totally has that Toshiro Mifune vibe, I tell him that _all the time_ — and that's Casey." Mikey squeezes her shoulder. "Splinter's around here somewhere, but that's pretty much the whole gang. You want a drink or something?"

"I —," says Angel. "I — yeah, a drink would be good." She looks like she could use a very specific kind of drink, Leo thinks, and he doesn't blame her. He lets Mikey guide Angel toward the couch, noting how April disappears into the lab with Donnie, and adds a reprimand to the to-do list for the morning. For now, there's a scared kid to talk to.

First things first, though; Leo takes another deep breath, and nods toward the kitchen. "You hungry?" he asks, and smiles as gently as he can when Angel nods.

* * *

"So," says Donnie, his heart leaping against his ribs. The power cell is lighter than he remembered, a brighter magenta too. It's such a small thing, this one last piece of the puzzle, but he already feels stronger with it in his hand. He loves the last few seconds before he leaps, when he has to trust in his calculations and wait to see where they'll lead him. That'll never change, no matter what he's got as context. "Moment of truth." He smiles and bumps April's arm with his, warmed all the way through when she smiles back.

"Moment of truth," April echoes, and leans around the generator to kiss the corner of his mouth. "All right. Let 'er rip."

"Hopefully, no ripping will occur," Donnie says, grinning wider when April huffs and mutters something that sounds like _pedant_. "After all, we _are_ working with the space/time continuum."

"Less talk, more ripping," she says, defiant, and pulls back the cover on the generator. "Killswitch armed. We're ready, Donnie."

"Got it." He takes a deep breath, hefts the power cell one last time, and slots it into place with a small, infinitely satisfying click.

"Goggles on," he says, out of pure habit, and waits till April's are in place before tugging his own down. "All right, spinning up."

It feels anti-climactic to push a button, rather than flipping a switch, but when the generator purrs to life between them, Donnie can't help a loose, satisfied sigh. The probability of something going wrong — and by _something_, he means _opening a portal to the surface of the Sun_ — decreases exponentially the longer the portal is open. Now that the first few seconds are past, he can take his eyes off the portal itself, and start to steer it.

He allots himself thirty seconds to get the hang of simultaneously manipulating his end of the portal and watching for a match on the biometrics streaming on his display before leaning back to check the energy readings. Everything is stable, the portal showing no sign of shrinking or collapsing, and while he's tempted to keep it running, and to see if they can nail the right string on the first try, there's no reason to push his luck.

"All right, April, shut it down!" he yells over the portal's growing whine. "We're good for now." He tilts his head back when the portal stays open, and finds April staring directly into it, her goggles pushed up on her head. "April, what is it? Are you okay?"

"Donnie," she says, her voice muffled by the portal's whine. "_Look_." She points, the whites showing all around her irises, her face totally drained of color. "Look, it's — it's me."

In the second before the string is lost and the portal powers down on its own, the woman rolls to her side, dull, bruise-circled eyes staring ahead. It's April, her hair bright as a bonfire against the stark, cold stones. But it's _not_ April; the woman in the portal is too old, too exhausted, her face smudged with dirt, her knuckles swollen and her lips split and chapped.

All of that, Donnie could bear. He could carry it, every sign of that April's pain — but what he can't carry, can't bear, are the iron bars around her. The bars of the cage, shaking in the wind as it blows through the courtyard.


	17. Part Eleven

**_Elsewhen, years ago._**

April wakes when the wind jostles the cage. She never really sleeps, but sometimes she manages to slip into a half-doze, where her hunger and thirst don't matter as much.

She knows there are better uses for her time: some of the bars are loose, and all of them are rusted. With a little effort, she might be able to break a handful, crumble them to nothing. All she needs is a hole big enough to slip through — not that it would be very big at all. She's just a shadow of her old self.

It's pointless to try. Even a _little_ effort is beyond her. She can barely lift her hand, and when she finally manages it, it's shaking so badly she can't even curl her fingers into a fist.

_I'm dying_, April thinks, and for the first time, the thought doesn't bother her.

It's not so bad. The worst was four days in, when her thirst left her groaning on the floor of the cage, her mouth thick and clumsy around a dry scrap of tongue. People yelled, and threw things — rocks, bits of trash, nothing with a drop of moisture — but she barely noticed. All she wanted was _water_, something to fill her mouth, cool and wet and slippery, sliding all the way down to her shriveled belly.

Now she's at five days, and April thinks — no, she's sure — she won't see a sixth. And that's fine, it's fine. The guys got away; she saw that much, Karai forcing her head up to watch their retreating shells. Mikey had looked back, his face grey, but Leo had dragged him away. Casey and Raph ran on the flanks, and Alice —

Alice made it. Wasn't that enough to hold onto, while everything else slid past her? She'd done that much right. At the end, with Karai's blade at her throat, April made sure her family got away.

_And I made Shredder pay_. She smiles at her hand, then lets it fall to the floor. _Did I ever. _The last of the Footbots, their circuits melted to slag. Without the Kraang, who would fix them?

It almost makes this squalid, public death bearable. There won't be a last-minute reprieve for her; Shredder won't descend from his great spire to offer her a chance to switch sides. She won't be forgiven.

Fine. He can take his forgiveness and his temptation and shove them up his ass. He can _choke_ on them. They're not even his to offer; they're the Boar's, and anyone with a brain can see that.

_I didn't break when I was sixteen_, April tells herself_, and I'm not breaking now. _

Of course, when she was sixteen, she had friends, she had a family, and they never left her. She never faced her battles alone. Now, she knows, she'll never see her family again. Never hug Alice, never lean her head on Mikey's shoulder, never —

The word doesn't quite make sense. Not yet. April thinks that _never_ is a word no one understands until they're jammed right up against it, with nowhere else to go. She's getting there. A few more hours, and she won't be able to lift her hand. A few more after that, and she'll stop breathing, and then she'll be past _never_, out into the dark, where nothing can reach her.

She curls around herself, every joint creaking and aching, and shuts her eyes. There's no shame in wishing her end would move its ass and get here a little sooner. She's no good to her family anymore, and she's barely any good to Shredder. Her entertainment value has waned; no one stops under her cage to throw things or laugh or spit. Death has robbed her of any purpose, and now all she has left is time.

Time's a dangerous thing. Too much of it, and her mind turns to quieter, softer times, when she could afford to be stupid, and laugh and not worry about who heard her. When she still had Donnie, never more than an arm's reach away.

Donnie, eight years gone, searching for a spear that April no longer believes exists. He wore his cape, the purple faded to grey, and he kissed her hard under the stairs, his hands in her hair, like they were teenagers again, not half-dead and terrified.

_I'll be back,_ he promised. _We can still win this thing, April. We've got a chance_.

Then he was gone. He walked into the night, over the fields, and he never came back. And stupid _stupid_ her, she still believes him, she still believes he'll keep his promise.

_Not stupid. He always keeps his promises. _

But eight years is a long time to wait, and April is so very, very tired. Her family is safe, and that's better than she could have hoped. And maybe Donnie is still out there, still searching, and he'll come home to his brothers, and to Casey, and to their daughter.

What a funny word, _daughter_. April smiles again, chapped lips curving, her eyes still closed. She never got to tell Alice the whole story about how they found her. That's all right. Donnie will tell her when he comes home.

When it starts to rain, she forces herself not to lick the water from the floor, and then she starts to shake.

* * *

**_March 30th._**

April comes back to herself — her world, her body — to find that Donnie's gotten her into a chair, and thrown one of his old wool blankets around her shoulders. He crouches on the floor in front of her, chafing her hands in his. For once, April realizes, her hands are colder than his.

_First time for everything_, she thinks, then jolts at the sound of her own voice. Donnie's mouth tightens, his hands going still.

"Are you okay?" he asks. His voice is low; no one outside the lab will hear, no one will know what they saw. April swallows, blinking away a film of tears, and nods.

"Are you sure?" Donnie rocks back on his heels, eyes warm on her face, but there's something in his expression that doesn't quite match the gentle way he's still holding her hands. "We both saw —"

"I'll be fine," she whispers. "I just…" She slides one hand from Donnie's and rubs it over her face, shivering at her chilly skin. _Well, of course you'll be cold, _she tells herself. _You were just facedown in a cage, out in the middle of the winter. You're freezing to death_.

_Starving_, she corrects herself automatically. The other April had been _starving_.

"Oh my _god_," she says, and covers her face. It all floods back to her — the wind, the icy metal sticking to any bare skin, and that horrible, gnawing hunger, burning away in her belly. Her body dying around her, muscles turned to water, and bones to sand. _Dying_.

Donnie's heavy hand cups the back of her head, her cheek. All he says is her name, a soft croon meant to comfort her, and nothing else. It almost, almost helps — but what fills her, in every inch that's not still echoing with borrowed, familiar hunger, is one thought: _I was dying, and you weren't there. _

There are more pertinent questions that April needs to be asking: _is this another trick of the Boar's_ tops the list. They have to keep working, they need to _fight_. She doesn't have time to huddle in on herself and try to get warm, but all she can think is _I was dying, and Donnie was already dead. _

"April?" She lifts her head and meets Donnie's gaze, still warm, anxiety pulling at the lines of his face. He's close enough for her to recognize that unfamiliar element in his expression: it's anger, straining at a tight leash. "What can I do?"

The unspoken question underneath it makes April flinch. Donnie's not just asking her how he can help, but how he can fix this nightmare that's been forced between them.

But beyond the hunger, the pain, and the lonely, wailing grief, April remembers one thing — _a gift_, her gut tells her. Trick or not, this one thing is true.

There's a way to kill the Boar.

April sits up straight, shrugging off the blanket. It doesn't matter if what they saw in the portal is true or not. Whether the sensations echoing in April's body are real, shared across universes, or whether they're just one more way for the Boar to worry away at Donnie's defenses — it _doesn't matter. _What matters is that April controls herself, and gives Donnie something to lean on before his anger turns inward, a sharper blade than any in the dojo.

She brushes her hair out of her face and tugs him close, even though the position is too awkward for a real hug. Donnie comes willingly, sighing against her neck, and a few of the hard knots in his shoulders dissolve.

"The Boar's a bastard," she says with her mouth against the dome of his head. "Whatever that was — we can do this. We can kill it."

Donnie pulls away to frown at her. The low light turns his irises almost black, faint red flaring along the rim. "You know that?" he asks. "You got that from the _portal_?"

"No," she says, squeezing his hand. "You're going to hate this, Donnie, but — that April? I felt her, I —" She hesitates when Donnie shakes his head, half-apologetic, ready to lecture her about pseudoscience, then pushes forward. "Donnie, I'm serious."

"I know," he says, and it's only because this is Donnie that it doesn't come out patronizing — but only just. April closes her mouth and waits, biting the tip of her tongue. "But the Boar — April, it made me think you were dead, before." His voice barely stutters over the words, and April marvels at Donnie, at how he protects himself and at how he always pushes forward, never stopping to let himself rest. She squeezes his hand again, and he squeezes back, faintly. "It's probably another trick," he says, resignation in his voice and in his eyes. Donnie is so _tired_, and he'll never admit it.

He looks old, shadows adding decades to his face, and for a moment April sees him not as her Donnie, tired but determined, but as the lost Donnie, broken-fingered and alone, shuffling through a deserted lab.

_Was that her Donnie_? April thinks. It'd be a sick kind of symmetry - exactly the kind the Boar would love. _But at least he's alive_. _Maybe he got out. Maybe he came home. _

She's the one who deals in faith, but April knows that it's too much to hope for. The other April died, and she died hoping her Donnie would come home. That's all there is to their story.

Not hers, though, and not her Donnie's.

"There's a way," April says, knowing that it's only because Donnie loves her that he doesn't roll his eyes, or sigh too loudly. "Donnie, I know there is —"

"Because you saw it in the portal?" he interrupts. "April, the Boar _lies_."

"I'm not," she says, her own temper leaping up before she can keep it out of her voice. Donnie's eyes flick toward the door, and she inhales, nodding. "I don't," she says, a little calmer. She has to be the other April's voice, now that that April can no longer speak.

The thought leaves her full of clutching grief. _You died_, she thinks_, and I'm so sorry._ There's no answer.

"Every lead's worth following," she says, trying for reasonable as Donnie stands up and leans against the desk, rolling his shoulders. "How many times has Sensei said that no matter how careful your enemy is, they always let something slip? You just have to look carefully."

"Against the Kraang and the Foot, maybe," Donnie says, smiling wry and crooked at her. "But we're a little out of that league now."

"Fine, maybe," April says. She stands up too, not wanting to leave any unnecessary distance between herself and Donnie. Part of it's selfish, a quest for more warmth to banish the cold inside her, but most of all it's wanting to be near him, making up for all that lost time - a phrase that's more apt than ever, now. His arms wrap around her easily, as if this is a practiced dance, and not an argument over one more impossible crisis. "But," she says, leaning her head on his plastron, "I know this is important, Donnie."

He sighs. April grins, knowing the sound by heart: he's capitulating, just a little, indulging her as always. "Okay," he says, holding her closer. "What is it?"

"There's a weapon," she says, her attention so focused on not thinking of that other Donnie, lost and wandering, or maybe just _lost_, broken away from his brothers and everyone who loves him, that she doesn't feel Donnie's breath catch. "It's a spear, and it — Donnie?"

"Did you say a spear?" he asks, voice bright and wondering.

* * *

Angel seems to relax once Leo maneuvers her into the kitchen. He finds her frustratingly hard to read, and wary too, turning to watch him whenever he shifts. But Mikey doesn't worry her at all, so Leo sits at the kitchen table, in plain sight, and lets Mikey steer the conversation while he watches the girl.

"Angel, my friend," Mikey says airily. He drapes himself on the stool next to Angel's, and smiles at her over his folded hands. "You are going to _love _it here."

"It's a sewer," Angel says, her mouth twitching. She's trying hard to resist Mikey's charm, but Leo feels her willpower steadily crumbling. "I don't know how you guys stand it." Her cheeks flood with red, and Leo watches the realization hit her: they don't have anywhere else to go. "I — god, I'm sorry, I —"

Mikey waves the apology away, already up and bouncing toward the cupboards. "Don't even worry about it. I mean, yeah, it's a sewer, you got me there, but we have got this place hooked _up_. Right, Leo?" Without waiting for Leo to reply — and even if Mikey had paused, Leo wouldn't have opened his mouth anyways — he keeps talking, throwing open cupboard doors and pulling out cans and bottles. "We've got amazing wifi, like, every video game and movie ever, I told you about the hot tub, we got some _awesome_ showers, and seriously, check it out, we even have _crumpets_." He shakes a package at Angel, who gives him a bewildered look, then glances at Leo before she remembers she's supposed to be ignoring him.

Leo just sits and watches. This girl, wrapped in April's old clothes, her hair unwashed, was touched by a god. Leo needs her to feel safe, because safety means talking and talking means answers for Donnie. He already knows what to ask; he just needs Angel to give him the key to unlocking her secrets. Until then, he's a shadow.

"I don't even know what crumpets are," Angel says. "Are they like English muffins?"

Mikey gasps, and presses the package to his plastron. "Don't even know — haven't you heard of cricket?"

"I — what? Yeah?" Angel shifts back on her stool. Leo watches one thin eyebrow arch as she turns her profile to him. "What's that got to do with crumpets?"

"You gotta know what cricket is, to understand crumpets." Mikey opens the package with his teeth. "At least I think that's how it goes. I mean, it's England, so whatever, right? All that matters is that they're _tasty_."

"If you say so." Angel turns in her seat to look at Leo. _Is he for real?_ she mouths, wariness briefly forgotten.

Leo reminds himself to thank Mikey later, and spreads his hands wide. _Pretty much_, he mouths back. "You want some tea?" he asks Angel out loud, nice and light, just testing the waters.

A faint frown darkens Angel's face, then disappears. She nods. "Yeah, tea'd be nice. You guys have like, milk, and stuff?"

The water's just fine. Leo nods at the fridge. "Milk's in there, sugar's somewhere around here."

"On it, bro!" Mikey slides the sugar bowl and three mugs, tea bags already inside, across the table, then spins back to fuss with the toaster. "You good with cream cheese, Angel?"

"Yeah, I'm good with cream cheese." A little smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, though she doesn't turn it on Leo. "But I'm not that hungry, so don't like, stress about it." Her stomach rumbles as soon as she stops talking, and she shrinks down into her borrowed hoodie, miserable red blotches staining her cheeks.

"Mikey's always ready to eat." Leo stands up to grab the kettle as it clicks off. "It's no trouble at all."

"I just don't —" Angel pauses, blowing out her cheeks and dragging fingers through her hair. "I broke into your friend's apartment, I stole her clothes, and now you guys wanna _feed_ me?"

Leo almost asks, _and how did you find April's apartment_, but he pauses to weigh his options. He could push now, and risk Angel's belligerence becoming armor, or he could wait, and possibly watch his key drift out of his grasp. He doesn't have April's intuition, but he can read what he needs in Angel's face, finally, and he decides to push.

"Well, that seems to be our fault," he says. He shoves a mug at Angel, nods when she stares at him, eyebrows puckered. "Mikey said something about…being tainted." He says it as gently as he can, but Angel curls her hands up into the sleeves and shakes her hair over her face.

"I don't want to talk about it," she says. Leo hears the warning in her voice: she'll claw him if he goes any farther now.

_Gently does it_, he reminds himself, and moves around Mikey to get the milk. His brother widens his eyes at Leo in question, and Leo shakes his head, an order to wait. Mikey rolls his eyes, his tongue hanging out of his mouth briefly, then turns back to the food.

"How much milk?" Leo asks, from a safe distance. Angel doesn't move, not even a shrug, so Leo puts the milk on the table next to her and goes back to his stool, his attention outwardly on his slowly steeping tea. But he's still watching, waiting for the claws to retract, waiting for —

"It's not really your fault," Angel says softly. Mikey lets his humming fade away gradually, and Leo reaches for the sugar bowl. It's a simple prop, but it does the job: Angel keeps talking, wiping her face with her sleeve. "Like, you didn't know, before you got there. You just wanted to talk, right? I just — the Bull told me to carry the message, and he'd keep Gran safe. He said I'd be okay too, as long as I didn't go in the lair, or talk to you guys. But then you were there, and I didn't know what to do. God, I'm such a dumbass, I don't know what I'm doing, I listened to this random _guy_ and now look where I am." She sniffs and scrubs her nose. "This city is so _weird_."

Leo laughs. "Angel, you have _no_ idea." Over at the counter, Mikey shakes his head, his shoulders shaking with a laugh. "If I'm honest, I'm hoping the Bull was a little more forthcoming with you than it's been with us. My brother Donnie —"

He grits his teeth against a sudden wave of pain, as the deep cuts in his arms sing to life.

"Donatello will know what he needs to know, when he needs to know it," says Angel. All inflection has evaporated from her voice, and her hands fall limp to her lap. She slowly swivels her head to look at Leo, her mouth hanging slightly open, and her eyes so wide the whites show around her irises. "You all test and test," she adds. "You, April. You all must learn _respect_."

"Leo —" Mikey says. Leo silences him with a slash of his hand, his pulse pounding in his mouth.

"Don't do that," Leo says. "She's not your puppet. Whatever you're doing, _stop_."

"You are not my leader, Leonardo." Angel's head tilts until her ear almost rests against her shoulder. Leo flinches reflexively, already hearing bones and tendons cracking, but the Bull doesn't push the gesture. It's trying for curiosity, Leo realizes, with a sick rush. It's trying to make her look _human_, as it uses her body.

"She agreed to be my messenger," says the Bull. It straightens Angel's head, and lifts her hands to rest on the table. "I am not hurting her."

"It's not _right_," Leo growls, still sick, but now, hot anger courses through him. Good; it's easier to ignore the pain. He holds his anger back, wills his hands to steady. "You're playing with us, you're playing with _Donnie_ and you can't even be bothered to talk to him. What's your game?"

He shouts the last words, control fraying as the last two months come crowding in: April falling, Donnie's guilt, Donnie's weariness, Casey and Donnie bleeding, Karai, _Karai — _

"You are lucky," says the Bull, in its dead version of Angel's voice, but Leo leans across the table, as close as he dares. He sees Mikey crouch, legs poised to spring, then fixes his attention back on the Bull, and its borrowed body.

"Yeah? Tell me _how_. Surprise me."

"I will say this once more, _child,_" The Bull raises Angel's hands from the table. "You all would be wise to learn deference."

It shoves him out of his stool, flat on his shell. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to startle. Mikey yells his name, but before Leo can sit up or draw breath to respond, the Bull leaps over the table and shoves Angel's face up against his.

"I will do this _one thing,_" says the Bull. "Since you demand it. Let me _surprise_ you, Leonardo." The Bull leans in, Angel's hair brushing Leo's face. "Tell Donatello these two words: _the spear._"

"The what —" Leo's breath is knocked out of him as Angel collapses on top of him, limp and sighing. "I — Mikey, give me a hand!"

Together, they ease Angel up and prop her against the kitchen table. She's pale, but her breathing and pulse are steady.

"What the _hell_, Leo?" Mikey whispers. "Are we ever gonna be done with this freaky stuff?"

Leo rubs his face, relieved that his hand isn't shaking. "I don't know," he says. "Come on, let's find Donnie."

"I'm right here," Donnie says from the doorway, his shoulders almost blocking April's bright gaze. "Is everything okay? What _happened_?"

There's no good way to explain; Leo already hates himself for adding another puncture wound to Donnie's ego. "We got a message for you," he says. "You'll never guess from who."

Donnie's face empties. "Really," he says. "And what did it have to say this time? More waiting? More _patience_? More —"

"Just two words," Leo interrupts, his hand still on Angel's wrist, counting her pulse. "It said, _the spear_."

Donnie's mouth drops open, his voice astonished and so, so young. "The _spear_?" he asks, faintly.

"Far be it from me to say _I told you so_," says April. "No, wait, _I told you so._"

* * *

Karai takes her place at the far edge of the perimeter. On the surface, being relegated to the outermost circle is a punishment, and she made a show of protesting when the Boar ordered her out of its sight. All noise, all smoke — but Karai's grateful for the exile. Watching the city means she won't have to watch what goes on behind her.

Of course, on a night as still and cold as this one, there's nothing to keep her from hearing everything.

Slash rattles the cage, snarling when a woman shrieks, then laughing when her shriek collapses into tears. Karai waits to feel revulsion; she's always hated weakness and nothing will change that, but she feels nothing in the space where her heart used to be.

"Yes," says the Boar, its voice delighted. "Oh, Slash, my prize, you have brought me such…" It laughs, throaty, rich, and the woman's sobs go shrill, hopeless, desperate.

Karai plants her feet solidly on the asphalt. Someone may run; it'll be her job to catch them, and drag them back to the Boar. No one's tried it yet, but there's always the chance. What will she do, then? Will she bring them back to the Boar's teeth?

_Will I? _she thinks, her eyes turning west, toward the Foot's old church.

Tonight's catch is a small one. As fast as Slash is, word travels faster, and the homeless are wising up and leaving Manhattan. It won't do them good for long, not when the Boar's hunger keeps growing and growing, but they'll be thankful for another night left alive. Karai thinks of the first feeding, how carelessly the bodies were dropped in the alley, waiting for the turtles to come home and see the Boar's greeting.

"That one," says the Boar, and the crying woman shrieks again, the sound harsh enough to make Karai flinch. She smells the woman's terror wafting toward her in a thick acrid cloud, and out of nowhere, a voice tells her to _run_.

_Get out of there, Karai, while it's distracted. Just run as far away as you can. _

She shuts her eyes as something fragile shifts inside her chest. The voice is familiar, a hand held out to her, a rescue, a promise. It's Leo's voice, the last thing she wants to hear.

A heavy thud behind Karai cuts off the woman's shriek and leaves her moaning. The Boar laughs again, the sound now tinged with madness, barely a laugh at all, and then —

Then the Boar starts to feed.

Karai is too far away to hear the most important sounds, but she can imagine them easily enough: teeth snapping through fat and muscle, a faint gurgle as blood fills a torn throat, fingernails scratching at the asphalt. What she does hear, as clearly as if she stood at the Boar's side, is the Boar laughing around each bite.

Everyone left in the cage is screaming now, rattling the bars themselves as they try to get away. How many of them are left? Five? Six? Karai didn't look when Slash brought the cage into the alley. She didn't want to see. She didn't want to know.

If someone tries to run, would she catch them?

_Would you? _Leo asks, and briefly, the smell of blood and urine and sweat disappears, and Karai smells Leo. Soft leather, beeswax, so close she can almost feel his skin under her hands.

_Would you have brought them back_?

Leo would want her to say no. He would want her to say that she's capable of something more than self-preservation. But the truth is, if anyone's getting a chance to run, Karai wants it to be her. She used up whatever altruism she had trying to warn Leo to get out of the city. Her one selfless act and she squandered it years ago, because she made sure herself that Leo would never listen to her again.

The Shredder taught her that inaction was cowardice; that one should choose a course and set oneself to it, regardless of the cost. There was honor in determination and in staying true to one's path, which Karai always thought was a way to make his vendetta sound like justice and _not_ like an obsessive, pathetic quest for vengeance. He'd call her a coward if he were still alive, a waste of his time and effort.

Fine with her. She may not help someone escape, but she won't help them die, either. She still has her withered excuse for honor.

It almost makes her smile to think that _both_ her fathers would be disappointed in her.

She's so distracted she doesn't feel the Boar's approach, or smell the blood soaking its robes. When its hot fingers clench around the nape of her neck and lift her like a kitten, she hisses and thrashes mid-air, but can't fight her way free.

"Your thoughts are far away, my lovely," whispers the Boar. Its teeth glisten, wet and red, as it looks up and smiles at her. "Are they with the brothers? With your Leonardo?" It licks its lips, a ravenous little murmur leaking out around its tongue.

"He's not —" Karai begins, still kicking, scratching at the Boar's fingers, but the Boar flings her to the side like a piece of trash. She hits the wall shoulders-first and only loses half her air, and pushes to her hands and knees, instinct telling her to run.

She gets one step before the Boar appears in front of her, wide red mouth gaping as it shoves her back against the wall, blood dripping from its chin to her chest.

"You disapprove," says the Boar. The hot stink of its breath makes Karai retch — that's _blood _and _skin_ clotted at the corners of the Boar's mouth, and its swollen belly presses against hers as it comes closer. Karai feels its touch plucking at her thoughts, the contents of her skull as bare and open to the Boar as the streets of the city once were to her. "You think…you think this is _dishonorable_."

There's no point in denying it. The Boar sees everything, knows everything. Yes, yes, Karai does think it's dishonorable. Maybe she's finally learned remorse, or maybe it's Leo's voice in her head, but there's no honor here. This is a slaughter of the helpless. It's nothing that she wants a part of, coward or not.

_You'd be so proud of me_, _Leo_, she thinks. _Last time counts for everything, right?_

"Yes, I _do,_" she hisses, narrowing her eyes against the stench, facing the Boar dead on. Where's this resistance coming from?

_Does it matter? _says Leo. _Keep going, you're doing great. _

_Shut up, boy scout_, Karai thinks, almost giddy as the Boar reels back, its inky eyes wide.

"Honor," it whispers. "Honor, honor. Oh, my lovely Karai, my _sweet_ Karai, I wonder. How does honor taste?"

It fastens its bloody mouth on Karai's neck, just above the curve of her shoulder. She screams as its teeth pierce her, shamed and agonized as the Boar worries at her skin, down to the muscle.

The Boar's teeth snap together; it jerks its head back, and Karai's vision goes white as the agony crests, a whole new realm of pain. From very far away, she thinks she can hear the Boar chewing.

"Honor," says the Boar, almost primly, once Karai can focus again. "It tastes just like the rest of you, Karai." It turns away, leaving her gasping and bloodless — but not painless, no, not at all — on the asphalt. She feels the sweep of its robes against her cheek and turns her face to the ground, trying to catch her breath.

"Slash, my prize," says the Boar. "I want something more. I want a meal, not these morsels." Karai hears it slaver, wet and thick, the laughter creeping back into its voice. "I will not wait. No, no, I will not, no. I want them all, I want _them_."

Karai covers the hole in her shoulder with one hand, and tries to turn herself over. She manages to twist onto her side, in time to see the Boar smile down at her, the bodies heaped behind it.

"Shall we look to the new warhounds?" says the Boar, reaching down to stroke Karai's hair, the way Karai would pet a cat. "Yes, it is time to see how my harvest has fared. I think oh, _yes, _I think this new field will raise a much healthier crop." It digs its fingers into Karai's cheeks, just below her eye. "Much healthier than yours," it purrs.

* * *

Raph doesn't hang around to watch Donnie and Mikey play nursemaid to the new kid. As soon as Mikey carries her into the common room, he shoves out of his beanbag chair and heads for his room. Leo glares at him as he passes them, but Raph waves him off.

"What? You want me to stick around and play doctor? No thanks, you guys've got this covered." One look tells him that the kid is still breathing, and she's not bleeding, so he figures she'll be fine.

And if he's honest, he's sick of this weird crap. Whatever happened in the kitchen, he doesn't want to know. He just wants five minutes to catch his breath, to think about something that isn't a pile of bodies in an alley, or whatever made Donnie and April walk out of the lab like zombies. Raph's not a wimp, he's _not_, but he's so tired of always having to raise his weirdness level that he'll start punching holes in the wall if they make him stick around.

It's not like he's any good at this doctor stuff anyways. Better that he just walks away, and lets Mikey do his thing, instead of standing around trying to look helpful, like April and Usagi.

"Let me know if you guys need anything," he says, after a second's thought. Leo's glare softens — he gets it, thank God — and he squeezes Raph's shoulder, quick and hard. Then all his attention is on the kid, and Donnie quietly counting her pulse.

He hopes Casey's sacked out in his room already, but when he pushes the door open, his covers are still rumpled from when he didn't make his bed that morning. Casey's not reading at Raph's desk, or messing with his drums. The room doesn't even smell like him.

_If you're trying to work out, you're a bigger dumbass than I thought_, Raph thinks, and closes the door. He hears the faint splash of one of the showers, and a little tension eases out of him. Just a shower. A shower's fine.

Raph hasn't ignored how beat Casey got. It's just, Casey hates it when people notice that kind of thing, and he likes to play the tough guy. Usually, Raph lets him, until Casey tries to work out or go to practice and then ends up making everything twenty times worse. Then he throws Casey into bed and keeps him there until the bruises fade or the sprains heal, because Casey may be an idiot, but he's _Raph's_ idiot, and the thought of something happening, _really_ happening to Casey, makes Raph's stomach collapse into a greasy knot.

But Casey's in the shower, which means Casey's fine. Unless he isn't.

Raph walks to the bathroom, because running means admitting something's wrong, and there's no reason for it. Casey likes the showers in the lair. They've got better water pressure, more hot water - Casey can stay in there for _hours_, singing and getting armpit hair all over Raph's soap and cackling about it later, and he's _fine_.

_I'm freaking out over nothing_. Raph nudges the door open with his foot, and walks into a dark, steamy room — a shower's running, but the only lights on are the ones over the sinks, on the far side of the room. And there's Casey, his shirt off, peeling away his bandage.

"Hey," Raph says over the rush of the water. "You good?"

Casey nods. "Yeah, just checkin' this, making sure I'm not growin' mold or anything." He hisses as he pulls the bandage off and tosses it into the sink. "Shit, that still hurts."

"Wimp." Raph leans his shell against the sink while Casey prods and swears at the half-healed gouge on his side. "Suck it up, princess."

"Fuck off," Casey says. "I'm not the one with anime girl powers."

"You asshole —" Raph snaps, then rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Hurry up and take your shower."

"Aw, Raph." Casey pouts at him, injury forgotten. "We could make this a _moment_. You, me, a shower — come on, it'd be hot."

"Not with everyone in the other room. God, just get cleaned up." Raph pushes Casey's face away when Casey leans in for a kiss, but he smiles, relief and annoyance mixing heavy in his gut. "Something weird happened with that Angel kid. We should probably check it out."

"Weird how?" Casey asks. He balls up the bandage and throws it in the trash, then rinses his hands in the sink. "Gimme a baseline."

"Yeah, I don't even know where that is anymore." Raph sighs and rubs his shoulder. "Just take your shower, okay? I gave them some space while they looked her over, but they might need help, I don't know."

"Aye, aye, Captain." Casey ambles toward the showers, kicking off his boots and socks as he goes. Raph watches him, his annoyance fading away and a lazy, peaceful haze replacing it. Casey's fine.

"I'll be out there," he says, heading for the door. Casey may not mind a spectator, but Raph's not in the mood to start something they can't finish, or at least can't finish _right. _But there's that unease again, ramping up the farther he gets from Casey, slick and twisting under his skin.

Raph's hand hits the doorknob, sliding on the wet metal, and then Casey screams, the sound boiling out of his throat to ricochet off the stone walls.

"What the f — what is it?" Raph slaps on the rest of the lights, trying not to slip on the tiles as he turns around, trying to find Casey in the steam. "Casey! Case, what is it?"

No answer, just another scream, and another. Raph finds Casey on his side, curled tight around himself, one leg kicking the wall as he twitches and screams.

_Oh god_, Raph thinks. _Oh, my god. _"Leo!" he bellows. "Mikey! Don! Get in here!" He sinks down next to Casey, tries to pull Casey's hands away from the wound on his side. "Case, what's happening, what's _happening_?"

"Inside," Casey wheezes, his eyes squeezed shut. "Moving, aw, _Jesus_, Raph, it's _moving." _

"Okay, come on, let me see — dammit, Case, let me help." Raph finally pulls Casey's hands away, ready for blood or bone or God, anything but what he actually sees: a jade-green cloud shifting just under the healing skin on Casey's side, moving in slow, rolling waves.

"Raph," Casey says. "Fuck, _Raph_." His hands scrabble at Raph's arm, and his eyes meet Raph's for the space of two heartbeats. Then Casey screams again, the skin on his side stretching, shredding, and the cloud pours out of him, claws and teeth forming as it touches the water.

Raph yells for Leo one more time before the warhounds drag him under.


	18. Part Twelve

One minute, Mikey's running after Leo to find out what's got Raph yelling like his lungs are about to pop, and the next, the bathroom door shatters into a thousand splinters.

"Get down!" Leo yells. He shoves Mikey down, shielding their necks and the back of Mikey's head with his arm, then he's up and moving, so fast Mikey's barely on his feet again before Leo's shouldered his way into the bathroom.

"Mikey?" Donnie calls. When Mikey looks back, he sees the green dome of Donnie's head angling in his direction. "You guys okay? What's happening?"

_D's got enough to worry about_, Mikey thinks. He aims for the bathroom, squinting through the steam. "We're good!" he yells, then course-corrects: "We've got this! Don't —"

That's when the smell hits him, like nasty month-old meat, and Mikey starts gagging. It's everywhere, crawling up his nose to sit in his brain, sliding down his throat like grease. His stomach clenches like a fist, and Mikey staggers midstep, leaning against the doorframe while he clamps a hand over his nose and tries to breathe through his mouth.

"Leo?" he yells, pushing forward into the bathroom. His eyes are watering so badly he trips over the jagged edge of the door, and nearly sprawls on his plastron before he pushes himself up. So it's a bad smell. Raph or Casey probably ripped one in the shower, or one of the toilets backed up. He's smelled worse.

_No_. Mikey goes cold all over, even with the shower running and the steam smothering him. He's smelled _this_, on April's hair and Casey's hoodie. Now he knows why Raph and Leo are quiet.

Now he knows the green shapes moving toward him aren't his brothers.

Panicking sounds _really_ good. Screaming, flailing, running in circles until he finds his brothers and they all figure out what to do — it's worked in the past, but that was against mousers or Footbots, enemies that made sense. Right now, Mikey's up against _ghost dogs_ and he's not gonna panic. He's gonna get mad.

But first, he's got to be quiet. He's got two, maybe three seconds before the dogs get to him. Maybe Leo could come up with a plan in that much time, but Mikey's not Leo. He doesn't plan.

He holds still, even though every bit of him's itching to move, right up until he sees the dogs leap. They swarm out of the steam, mouths wide open and dripping, ready to eat him alive — but Mikey's not there anymore. He somersaults under them, landing in a crouch right as the dogs collide mid-air and start whimpering and snarling at each other.

Down low, the smell's even worse, but Mikey's lungs are ready to burst. He sucks in a slimy lungful of air and tries not to puke as he skids forward through the puddles.

He can't see anybody. His stomach flips — how long has he been in here? Long enough for his brothers to be —?

He whines, like a baby, and flushes hot all over just as his hand hits a thick, cold ankle. Raph. He found Raph, and there's Leo, knocked out on Raph's other side. Relief drops him to his hands and knees. He's gonna get Raph out, make sure Raph's okay, and he's gonna do the same for Leo and Casey. He's got this.

Something snarls to his left, and Mikey freezes with his hand on Raph's ankle. He glances at Leo, just to know how this'll play out - but Leo doesn't move.

"Oh, crap," he says, as the dog paces out of the steam and curls its lip back from green, shiny teeth. A _lot_ of teeth. "Crap," he says again.

The dog goes all tense, foaming at the mouth. Mikey has maybe half a second to get between his bros and the dog, and all those teeth, but another dog growls behind him, and he can't take his eyes off the dog in front of him to see where the second one's coming from. He reaches down to his belt for his nunchuks — one is better than none — and takes a deep breath.

"Mikey!" Donnie calls from the door. "Are you guys okay in there? What about — oh _dammit_!"

The last word's muffled, like Donnie's talking through his hand. "Leo!" Donnie yells again. "Talk to me!"

"D, look out!" Mikey screams, as the dog behind him leaps over his shell and speeds toward the door. Toward Donnie. "You got incoming!"

"I —" Donnie's voice cuts out, like someone turning off a radio, and then there's just a heavy thud and a few grunts over the sound of the shower.

Mikey hesitates, eyes still locked on the dog in front of him. If he can get to the shower, he can get rid of the extra noise, the steam. He can take this one dog, he knows it, he's _Mikey_ and one creepy green dog isn't going to do _shit_ to him, but that means leaving Raph and Leo and Casey alone — and Mikey doesn't know how many dogs there are.

He doesn't even know how to fight them.

"Mikey!" Donnie sounds half-strangled, but now Mikey can hear Usagi and April's voices over the rush of the shower, shouting things he can't make out.

_I pity the fool who tries to knock out Donnie when April's around_, Mikey thinks, a laugh busting out of him all nervous and shrill. The dog stops panting for a heartbeat, looks back at the sound of Donnie's voice. Mikey uses the distraction — it's what he does, right? — and beats it for the shower, slipping in every other puddle. The dog snarls behind him and starts to chase him, but Mikey gets into the showers and slaps the water off, throwing himself against the shower wall as the dog leaps at the empty air where he used to be.

"Ha-ha, yeah, that's what I thought!" Mikey pulls his nunchuks free, spinning them in the steam. "Can't touch this!"

The dog picks itself off the ground and snaps at Mikey's ankles as he dances back toward Raph. It's not big, but it's fast, with thick claws scraping at the tiles. Mikey has a split second to think of the gouges in Donnie's legs, and the hole in Casey's side, then the dog bounces off the floor, straight at his face, mouth snapping.

"Whoa, uh, _no_! Too close!" No time for correct form; Mikey straight-up bashes the dog in the face with his nunchucks, wham, bam, no thank you ma'am, and watches half its jaw go flying off into the thinning steam. A long green tongue flaps uselessly, and the dog makes a horrible gobbling sound, like a turkey on acid, and starts to seize up, its eyes rolling.

_Gross_, Mikey thinks, his heart pounding all the way up his throat, but he swings again when the dog stumbles, and smashes his nunchuck straight through what's left of its head.

* * *

Usagi watches Donatello freeze when the jade dog bursts through the wreckage of the bathroom door, trailing steam and long trails of its own substance. The paralysis lasts for a mere heartbeat before Donatello sweeps a long arm in front of his plastron to block the dog's jaws, but Usagi read his expression in that instant, the set of Donatello's features more eloquent than any words. Exhaustion, frustration, grim resignation — but no fear.

If there were more time, Usagi would be impressed.

The dog collides with the broad, flat back of Donatello's wrist and tumbles to the ground, snarling and frothing in a paroxysm of rage, and is on its feet again before Usagi can draw his sword.

"Mikey!" Donatello yells, voice strained. "Are you okay in there? What about — oh _dammit_!" He lurches backward to evade the dog's teeth — nothing, no creature alive, dead, or something in between, should have teeth that gleam so cruelly - but Donatello's shell collides with the wall, He has nowhere to go.

There is simply not enough room for Usagi to swing his sword; he could stab, or thrust, but the dog's leaps are too erratic for a simple blow. He risks injuring Donatello — but he must take the risk, or watch his friend be torn apart.

"Donatello, hold!" he cries, thinking a quick prayer for steady hands and a sure heart, and readies himself to strike a blow that never falls.

"I got this, Usagi!" April streaks past him, still in her armor, and slams into the dog with her shoulder. Her momentum carries the dog to the end of the hall; seconds later, April lets out a hoarse, furious cry, and a silent explosion of air slams painfully against Usagi's ears.

The dog, for its part, explodes.

Usagi sees it only as a brief, sick flash of light; one moment, there are claws and teeth worrying at April's armor, and then she throws her arms wide, her cry echoing over Michelangelo's suddenly-audible shout from the bathroom, and then light dazzles Usagi's eyes, and a last whimper breaks the chill air in the hall.

"Okay," April says. "Note to self, that _hurts_." She staggers as she stands, steadies as she turns back to Donatello and Usagi. Her chest and legs are spattered milky-green, gobbets dangling from her arms, and — Usagi knows this is uncharitable of him, but he cannot help thinking it — she _smells_.

"Are you — did it bite you?" Donatello is already on his feet, his own peril forgotten in his concern for April. His eyes dart toward the bathroom, and as soon as she nods and brushes her fingers against his arm, Donatello turns to the bathroom, climbing over the splintered wood. "Guys! Leo? Mikey? Talk to me!"

"They're good," comes Michelangelo's voice, rough from his heavy breathing. "At least I think they are — Leo's out, so's Raph, but Casey — _dude_, Casey's…" His voice fades to a murmur, Donatello's humming alongside it.

"I'm going in," says April, passing Usagi in a wave of stench, but he catches her arm, his attention diverted, only half-aware of the sharp, _how-dare-you_ look she gives him.

"Wait," he says. "We should check the rest of the lair."

"The guys _need_ us." April is clearly unconvinced, her face tightening as she tugs her arm from his grip. Equally clearly, she wants to be inside the bathroom, helping. She has no _patience_, Usagi thinks, and takes her arm in his hand again, drawing her down the hall.

"Usagi, what the _hell_?" she snaps. "I don't hear anything. What are you — what is that?"

He stops at the top of the stairs, letting April pull away once more as he pads silently into the common room. The child still lies motionless on the couch, with Hamato Yoshi crouched over her, his fur rumpled as if he has just risen from sleep. He gives them a questioning look, but says nothing as he rises, moving past them toward the bathroom.

The air trembles against his ears, as if with fast-approaching footsteps. Usagi listens, follows the faint sound to its source.

"There." He points, and April's head snaps to follow the line of his arm.

"The lab?" she whispers. "Who would — the portal, come on!" She sprints off without waiting for Usagi to follow.

The footsteps stop before they reach the door, but the air gathers itself, a deep breath before a storm, and he settles his hand around the hilt of his sword as April pulls open the door and steps inside. No lights burn in the lab, beyond a dim blue glow from one of Donatello's machines.

Usagi turns to the right, close to the wall, pleased when April moves off to the left without a word. She is silent, her hands empty — but she needs no weapon now, does she, when she is such an effective one on her own?

He smiles to himself as he takes a slow, soft step, listening for a strange mouth to open and draw breath, or a strange hand to strike glass. From the corner of his eye, he sees April, a dim green phosphorescence clinging to her chest, and thinks, _If anyone is here, will they see or smell her first?_

His smile grows, only to freeze on his face an instant later. A new sound has reached his ears: a slow, uneven creak of metal upon metal.

April's eyes are locked on something at the back of the lab. She sends Usagi a brief glance, jerks her head toward the sound, and unsheathes her tessen. The sound goes on, unheeding as they cross back to the middle of the lab and advance.

A ragged, humped shape surfaces from the gloom. An arm lifts, the motion obscured by a obscure blur of movement, and spins an instrument on Donatello's desk.

"Wait," whispers April. "He's — he's dead."

The shape lifts its head, the blurred movement more distinct now — a pair of wings, Usagi realizes, just barely catching the light from Donatello's machines.

"You — Usagi, get down!" April does not wait for him to react; once more she uses her body as a bludgeon, and shoves Usagi to the floor as the shape whirls around, buzzing, and a stream of hot, noxious fluid cuts through the air where his head was seconds before.

"He's dead," April says, one last time, her teeth gritted. "Oh _shit_, keep him away from the portal!"

No time to ask April which instrument is the portal, no time to demand to know who _he_ is. There is only time for Usagi to roll with April as another stream of fluid flies at them, and the buzzing sound rises, splitting and shaking and utterly mad.

"_April O'Neil_," the shape splutters. It rises above them, spitting over and over, without aim or reason. Usagi dodges, rolls, and dodges again, the hot, corroded smell of acid burning into his sinuses. He has lost April; he cannot reach her, cannot see her, can only dodge —

"Hello, pretty girl," buzzes the fly, its face finally coming into the light. Usagi hisses through his teeth; its face is rotted, something pulled from a wet and filthy grave, and if it once was a man, it did not die as one.

On the other side of the lab, April leaps, her tessen sweeping in a bright arc before her. Usagi charges, sword held steady in both hands.

* * *

Raph's going to rip the shell off whoever's shaking him. He's got a headache like he got sideswiped by a bus, and every part of him that isn't hurting is cold and wet.

_Just leave me alone_, he tries to say, but ends up just groaning instead. The shaking pauses for a second, then starts up again, twice as hard, only now Mikey's chanting Raph's name from somewhere above Raph's head.

"Raph, Raph, dude, Raph, you gotta wake up!" Mikey gives him one last shake, and Raph finally gives in and opens his eyes. "Aw, jeez, Raph," says Mikey, rocking back on his heels. "I didn't think you were gonna wake up."

"Yeah, well, I'm up now." Raph sits up, scrubbing his face with both hands. The fluorescent lights makes his eyes water, and they don't do anything for his headache either. At least it's just a dull throb, not the icepick in his head from two weeks ago.

Fluorescent lights. Cold puddles under his ass and hands. Raph stands up, fast enough to catch his shell on the sink on the way, and leans against it for balance while his headache sets off dizzy sparks behind his eyes. He can just make out the bathroom, the pinkish water on the tiles, and a pile of green crap dissolving a few feet away.

Then the rest of the bathroom comes into focus: the busted door, Splinter kneeling next to Leo, Mikey watching him with dazed eyes, and Donnie, bending over Casey.

Raph drops back to his knees and half-crawls over to Donnie, shoving his brother out of the way. Donnie's good, but he's not Raph. And even if Raph can't say half the stuff he knows he should, he can make sure Casey's good, and then he can beat the crap out of whatever did this to Casey.

Not that there's a long list, Raph reminds himself, and presses a finger to Casey's neck.

_Good pulse, steady but thready — gotta watch it, I sound like Mikey._ A huge bubble of relief bursts in his chest and forces its way out as a laugh, in time for Casey to groan and push his hands away.

"Raph," says Donnie. He's got his no-nonsense, world's-ending voice on. Raph waits as long as he can before turning to look at Donnie, because nothing good ever came out of that voice. "I need you to hold his arms."

"What?" Raph says, in unison with Casey. Mikey shuffles over to Casey's feet, where he grabs Casey's ankles and holds them tight against the wet floor.

Leo sighs, shudders, and sits up. Raph can tell just by Leo's breathing how hurt he is — not bad at all, which means the priority is still Casey — and that Mikey's winded but just fine. Donnie's got a hell of a bruise on one shoulder, but that barely registers with Raph. What does register, beyond the stink still lingering in the bathroom, Casey's breathing slowly speeding up, and Splinter murmuring to Leo, is Donnie's stare, and how hard he grips Raph's arm.

"Watch it," Raph snaps — brother or not, if Donnie wants him to leave Casey, he'll get popped — but then Mikey's hands on Casey's legs adds up with what Donnie said, and all that relief goes right down the drain. "No — no, you're kidding, that's —"

"I need you," says Donnie, in that dead calm voice no one refuses, "to hold his arms. I'll be quick, but it's going to hurt." He looks down at Casey, with a hard little smile, and shrugs an apology. "I'll be quick, Casey, I promise."

Casey's still a little dull-eyed when he nods, but he goes even paler. "Just hurry it up, camel face," he mumbles, and shuts his eyes.

"Donnie," says Leo, faintly, like his head's pounding just as hard as Raph's. "What are you doing?"

"Got a theory," Donnie says. He bends over Casey, with one last glare at Raph. "It'll go faster with your help."

Raph bites back what he wants to say — _eat shit, genius_ — but he settles next to Casey's head and wraps both hands around Casey's wrists.

And Casey, the idiot, even though he's bleeding all over the bathroom, _winks_ up at Raph. "I'll remember this for later," he says.

Mikey snorts, Donnie's mouth twitches in an almost-smile, and even Leo lets out a huff of laughter. Then Donnie leans down, peering at the hole in Casey's side, and sucks in a sharp breath.

"But I think — I think I see —" He leans down, one hand spreading Casey's wound open as the other plunges in.

Casey breathes in to scream, but before he gets as far as opening his mouth, Donnie's pulled away, the tips of his fingers bloody. Raph lets go — turns out he didn't even need to hold Casey down — but Donnie knots his bloody hand into a fist, swallowing over and over. His face is dark, clouded over like a snowstorm about to hit. An old, deep fear turns over in Raph's gut. Yeah, he's tough, Leo's mysterious, Mikey's Mikey, but Donnie's _scary_, in a way none of them can touch.

"It's a tooth," Donnie says. The words hit the floor and stay there, no echoes. "A tooth." Then the dark cast to his face is gone, and he throws himself to his feet and out the door, past Leo and out of sight.

"A tooth," says Casey. "Ugh." He falls back against the floor, a little color coming back to his face. "Anyone wanna tell me what happened?"

"Should've let us look under your damn bandages, Jones," Raph says, meeting Leo's eyes for the first time. Leo lifts his eyebrows, then nods back toward the common room. The message is clear: _get ready for anything_.

"Not an answer, green machine." Casey tries to sit up and falls back, hissing. "Shit. _Shit_."

"Stay here, Casey. Get cleaned up," says Leo, already on his feet, all fearless leader. "Raph, keep an eye on him. I'll bring your sai to you. Mikey, Sensei — with me."

Raph nods, slides a hand around Casey's shoulders, and tries not to think about what else could be waiting.

* * *

The Boar strokes Karai's hair, making impatient noises deep in its throat. Its fingers snag every knot, until Karai has to bite the insides of her cheeks to stop herself from screaming _just get it over with, just kill me._ That would make the Boar take its time, and Karai wants it over fast. She's not afraid of pain, but she'd rather avoid being mocked as the Boar destroys her.

Its hands trail, warm and damp, down the skin of her neck, teasing at the ragged, bloodless edges of the wound on her shoulder. Pain sparks at its touch, but Karai expected that, and manages to hold still and stare straight ahead.

The back door to the lair stands closed and locked. That doesn't matter. The Boar has all the keys it needs: the teeth, Stockman, and now Karai.

Footsteps race past, close, on the other side of the door. Not Leo's feet — even at his top speed, Leo is graceful, as concerned with form as he is with function, and the empty space in Karai's chest would ache, if she let it.

"My lovely," breathes the Boar, right against Karai's ear. Its breath is a swamp fog; she feels its smile as it presses its mouth against her neck. She doesn't shudder, but its smile grows anyways, like even her indifference delights it. "Oh, my Karai, look, look at how I have brought you _home_."

No wonder the Boar's so pleased with itself; this lair wasn't home any more than the old one, but it could have been, if she had chosen peace over satisfaction.

It occurs to Karai, seven years too late, that all of this can be laid at her feet. If she had said no, or tried to help Leo, if she had never kissed him to begin with —

She loved him, once. It doesn't matter now. Leo's home will be nothing but rubble soon.

The lock creaks, and the door falls open, the rich, warm smells of the family pouring out: leather, oil, sweet incense and soap and yes, pizza, and Karai swallows, her throat nothing but dust.

"You want to die," says the Boar. "Oh, lovely, sweet, _succulent_ Karai, my delicious one, you are already dead. I have one more use for you, one more night with your hand acting as mine, and then I will take the rest of you." A laugh, smothered in Karai's skin and hair. "You shall do my work, while I deal with the champion. Will that not satisfy you, my sweet one?"

When Karai doesn't answer, the Boar digs its fingers into her wound. Karai hisses, hate briefly filling her mouth, her lungs, but the feeling passes before it can fill her chest and do her any good. The Boar's fingers plunge deep, searching, and when it finally tugs the tooth free, Karai feels nothing at all. She's empty, truly empty.

The Boar laughs again, its teeth rasping over the skin of Karai's throat. She tells herself not to tense, that it won't hurt as much if she stays relaxed, but the bite doesn't come. What she feels instead is a vibration in the stones under her feet, and in the air brushing her cheeks. No sound follows it, but the air trembles, and something washes against her, a faint tide tugging at her fingers and tongue.

Magic. Karai sneers. She's had enough magic for twenty lifetimes. If the turtles and their little friends decided to try and fight the Boar on its own terms — if that crippled Bull is involved — then they're bigger idiots than she thought.

The Boar feels the tide too; it tenses its fingers in Karai's shoulder, plucking at a half-exposed nerve. Karai twitches, and the Boar sighs.

"It changes nothing," whispers the Boar. "A brief distraction." Its fingers slide away. "Be my blade. Do my work this last time, my lovely. Wait until Slash has the brothers distracted, and then —" It savors the last words, and Karai knows it savors her resistance before it crushes her will. "Kill the rat."

Karai tells her legs _no, don't move_, but it's far too late, seven years too late. Her feet take one step after another, silent steps that lead her through the door, down the hall, toward a man who would have been her father, if she had wanted him to be.

* * *

There's only one thought in Donnie's head as he races toward the lab: _teeth. _He spares exactly one glance for Angel, who's still limp and quiet on the couch, before he picks up his pace, gritting his teeth as his hand tightens around the tooth and the point cuts through the skin of his palm.

April got the tooth out of him, but Casey walked around with one planted in his body, a bitter seed, its roots spreading every day.

_At least there were only two_, Donnie thinks. _And they're dead now_. _So unless the one in the lab — but that's impossible, it's been sitting in a drawer for weeks_.

He knows better than to trust logic by now. Just one imperative: get to the lab, and kill anything in there that isn't his family.

The door's already open; someone breathes harsh and tight just beyond it. Donnie slides in, pathetically glad that Leo made him wear his bo around the lair even if he's not fighting, and takes in the wreckage of his lab.

"What —" Donnie pauses with his hand wrapped around his bo, ready to pull it from its sheath. "Are you guys okay? What _happened_?" he asks, when he gets his breath back, when he's not thinking _oh god, my lab_ in a fevered half-panic.

Usagi looks up from bandaging his leg. The rabbit's face contorts as he tightens the bandage over a fresh burn, pink as raw meat, and he hisses as the knot draws closed. "I believe it is done," says Usagi, nodding toward April in the far corner of the lab.

The destruction — papers and binders thrown everywhere like confetti, broken pipettes and vials shattered on the floor, Timothy's old tank cracked — centers around April. Her back's to him, her tessen forgotten a few feet behind her. As Donnie crosses the mess, _are you okay_ forming in his mouth, April lifts her leg and stomps on something just out of sight.

"April?" Donnie asks. There's a desk between them, he can't see what April is doing, but he watches her lift her leg again and stomp — and again, and again, a horrible squelch following every movement of her leg. "April!"

She turns around, high color in her cheeks. "_Stockman_," she says. "It — the Boar — he's dead, but it was still using him, Donnie. It _talked_ through him." She drags her fingers through her hair, all her teeth bared. "Look," she says, moving aside to let him through. "I think we killed him, but I don't know." A high breathless laughs knocks out of her, and she slumps against the desk. "So I've been kicking the shit out of what's left to make sure."

Donnie doesn't like the abstraction in her voice, or the flush riding her skin, but April waves him away when he tries to steady her. She keeps her eyes on the rotting pile at their feet, like she expects it to wake up and start fighting again. The way their luck's _always_ run, it's not unlikely.

"It was just Stockman?" Donnie asks a few moments later, caught between hot urgency and the need to piece together what he can before trying to come up with a plan. "No more dogs?" When April frowns at him, he opens his bloody hand and shows her the tooth.

April's eyes snap open, comprehension dawning, and Donnie's chest fills with gratitude, in spite of the circling anxiety gnawing at the edge of his mind. He can almost feel her mind flowing down the same path as his own.

"Nothing but Stockman," she says. "And that was bad enough, but — oh god, _Casey_. The tooth -"

"Casey's fine," Donnie tells her, then amends himself. "Casey'll be fine."

April frowns, her mouth opening around a question, then Stockman starts to laugh.

They all jump, more startled than horrified, until what used to be Stockman's head lifts off the floor. Donnie can see April's bootprint stamped on one side of Stockman's face. The laughter keeps coming and coming, delighted and utterly mad. The sound bubbles out of the smashed ruin of wet, decaying skin and broken bones, like swamp gas. "Teeth," Stockman says, twitching. "Teeth, teeth, _pretty teeth_."

Donnie pulls his bo from its sheath, aware of the slackness in his muscles and how slow and out-of-practice his movements are as Stockman keeps twitching and keeps laughing — and starts to rise. When Donnie tries to take a step back, his shell collides with the desk. He's hemmed in on both sides by April and Usagi, no room to swing his bo, no room to fight.

"Oh come _on!_" he hisses, as Stockman pulls his body together with a long scraping sound, and rises. The broken wings flutter, one almost snapped off at the base, but Stockman rises a few feet off the floor, the gassy laughter still leaking out of his crooked mouth.

April throws herself behind him — for her tessen, Donnie realizes, but also to open up his left flank. _Now_ he has room to move; now Usagi can draw his sword and fight. Stockman makes a clotted, angry sound, like a kitchen sink backing up, and tries to spit acid, but only a few drops spill out of his mouth.

Donnie decides against grace and economy, and swings his bo like a baseball bat. The blow connects with Stockman's stomach, and the already filthy, shredded sweater opens like a mouth to unleash a hot flow of acid. It spatters across the floor of his lab, digging new craters among the smaller pits he's left there himself, and misses his feet by inches.

Stockman finally stops laughing. He's caught his balance, broken wings aside, and he swoops toward Donnie, his stomach leaking.

Donnie raises his bo for another hit, knowing as he swings the angle's too steep and he won't be able to get enough momentum.

_Oh well_, he thinks, just before an impact that never happens. The instant Stockman is supposed to hit him, April lets out a sharp _ha!_ and Stockman ricochets off to the side.

Donnie lowers his bo as he turns, and finds April looking absurdly pleased with herself, one hand held high. Stockman buzzes furiously, trying to right himself, but April clenches her fist and Stockman hits the wall, splattering acid and bits of himself over the old brickwork.

April in full destructive mode is enticing enough, but seeing her like this is past any reasonable expectation of self-control; Donnie needs to kiss her, and he needs to kiss her _now_.

Then Usagi clears his throat, and nods at Stockman's spasming body.

"Ah. Right," says Donnie, with a last glance at April.

She nods. "I've got him," she says, the color in her cheeks growing. "Just make it quick, now's not a good time to figure out my limits."

Donnie thumbs the trigger for his naginata, and advances on Stockman a pace ahead of Usagi. They might not be able to kill him — _again_, Donnie thinks, grimly — but they can disable him. One less toy for the Boar.

Before Donnie can sink his blade into the body at his feet, Angel screams, her voice spiraling high before breaking, and the walls around the lair's front door come tumbling down. The ground convulses under his feet like a muscle contracting. Angel screams again, and a second later comes pelting into the lab, hair loose and eyes wild. "Mon—monster!" she yells.

Donnie nearly snaps at the kid — _monster_ tells them nothing — but then she pulls in a deep breath and clarifies: "_Turtle_."

"Oh, shit," says April. "Angel, get over here!" The kid comes running, pulling up short when she sees what's left of Stockman, and gives April a bleak, terrified look.

"Donnie!" Mikey shouts, from outside the lab. "Donnie, come quick, we —"

There's a thud, a cut-off scream, and then Slash's laugh, echoing over the sounds of still-crumbling rocks. Raph and Leo start shouting, Splinter roars something Donnie can't make out, and then April shoves him toward the door.

"Go!" she yells. "I'll take care of Angel. Go help Mikey!"

His brothers or April: there's no choice, there's never been any choice. Donnie sprints out of the lab, Usagi at his heels, just in time to catch Mikey as he falls.

* * *

April thinks, _if I can't handle Stockman, what good am I_?

But that's not all of it, is it? It's not just Stockman, and it's not just her life on the life. There's a terrified nineteen-year-old behind her, trying not to cringe, and there's still the portal to protect. She debates calling to Usagi for back-up; an injured rabbit samurai is better than fighting alone, but the minute she opens her mouth, Donnie will come running. Or, worse, Donnie will hesitate.

She adjusts her grip on her tessen. "Angel," she says, in a calm voice that in no way matches her pulse. "Stay behind me, whatever happens."

April doesn't hear if Angel replies; Stockman laughs again, and just outside the lab another wall comes down, and Raph howls, long and wordless.

"P-p-p-pretty," Stockman says through his laugh, more acid spattering from his gaping stomach.

If April never hears that word again, she'll die a happy woman. "Shut up!" she yells, and slashes forward. Stockman flutters out of reach, ducking and weaving through the lab as April chases him, but Stockman's moves are familiar. Leo made them memorize the way Shredder's pet mutants fought, down to the last twitch of their fingers. Nothing has changed; Stockman evades rather than engaging, and relies on the acid to keep enemies at a safe distance.

Whatever Stockman had in his muscles when he died is all the Boar has to work with. But April can _adapt_, and she's got ten years of thinking on her feet.

She chases Stockman toward the back of the lab, where one of Donnie's supply closets hangs open. It's metal, the locks reinforced against Mikey's curiosity. If she can just get Stockman inside, there's no way his hands will be up to getting it open. Then she can hide Angel, and get back to the real fight.

The power in her likes that idea; it rises from the reservoir deep in her chest where it's been recovering since she smashed the dog. It'll be ready when she calls it, and April grins to herself, already thinking ahead to where she lets loose on Slash, and crushes the bastard's shell.

"April!" shrieks Angel. "Behind you!"

An explosion of air shoves April off her feet. She drops to her knees and rolls out of the way of the acid, but she doesn't move fast enough to avoid Stockman's body as it drops on top of her, abandoned and empty.

She kicks the body away, gagging as the oversweet smell of decay invades her mouth, and staggers to her feet only to find her view of the lab blocked by white silk.

"Pretty girl." The Boar grabs a fistful of her hair. "I hear you have been talking to my friend. Such a foolish, pretty girl." Tears spring into April's eyes as the Boar's hand tightens, and she grinds her teeth together to keep from crying out.

The turtles are still fighting, just out of reach. She hears Splinter shout, and Leo answer, indistinct; Raph roars. Usagi is silent, but she can just catch Donnie's voice, telling Mikey it'll be okay, telling Slash he's done, he's gone.

_Donnie_, she thinks, as the Boar heaves her to her feet by her hair, then lifts her with a hand around her throat.

The Boar shoves its face close to hers and laughs, its mouth wide and red and stinking of old meat. Grey flesh is caught in between its teeth, and there are so many of them, so many teeth that march right down its throat and into the dark beyond its tongue. April holds her breath, her hands clenched into fists, and plunges her awareness into the flood rising through her.

Light blinds her; Angel cries out, and a few more pipettes shatter, but what April hears most clearly is a roar, petulant and thwarted, close to her ears. The Boar drops her, and April blinks her eyes clear in time to see the Boar stagger back, its lovely face contorted into a waxy mask of rage.

"You little piece of —" The Boar can barely speak. Spittle flecks its lips and cheeks, and it tears at its own face and hair, its tarry eyes narrowed to slits. "You _dare_," it snarls, and falls on April in a flood of white silk. "You play these games, you have no idea what you play with, you have these tools and —" It cuts itself off, frothing and snarling, and grabs April by the neck one more time.

April's so far past fear she's almost peaceful, face to face with a god that's seconds away from swallowing her whole. But the flood is still rising in her, bright and singing, so she shoves both hands into the Boar's face, and _pushes_.

A hot, slick liquid gushes over her fingers, reeking like a trash fire, as the Boar's face cracks. When April looks at the Boar again, the flawless white face is cracked straight across the left eye, over the nose, and down the opposite cheek. The right side of the Boar's mouth hangs limp, and when it speaks, the words come out blurred and soft.

"You have not the slightest idea," it slurs, "no, no idea at all, the Bull never told you, never taught you, and you fumble with what _never_ should have been yours. You are _nothing_, pretty girl."

"Yeah, well." April gasps, with the last of her air, no longer caring, her mind turning out, to the rest of the lair, where the minds of her family are finally, finally clear again, as the Boar chokes her. "But I slowed you down."

The Boar pauses long enough for April to feel Donnie's mind, steel hidden in ivy, and then it smiles. "I have killed you twice," it says, "I will not regret doing so a third time."

April tries to say _what the hell do you mean_, but her mouth won't open. Then a hand clenches around her spine, heavy and many-fingered, and yanks her away, into the dark and the cold winds.

The last thing she sees is the Boar's face, broken beyond repair, twisted with surprise.

* * *

Something in the back of Donnie's head snaps: a thread is cut, a branch breaks. But there's too much else, between Leo trying to give orders and Angel screaming and Slash laughing and Mikey clutching his arm, struggling to breathe, and Donnie ignores it.

* * *

Leo sees the battle unfolding from a space deep inside his head, distant as a general wrapped up safe in a bunker, miles away from the actual fighting. Every moment unfolds in front of him in pure, glass-sharp detail: Raph's blows slowing as exhaustion starts to take over, Usagi favoring one leg, Splinter hemming Slash in at the perimeter, Donnie trying to protect Mikey, who's bent over, gasping for breath.

And Slash, towering over them all, kicking aside the wreckage of their home, _laughing_ as he advances on Donnie and Mikey — the weak members of the herd, ready to be taken down.

"Leonardo!" Splinter cries, a warning Leo doesn't need. He knows Slash's moves, how he preys on perceived weakness, how he delighted in hurting Donnie and Mikey.

No time for grace; he runs as fast as he can over the broken stones and leaps, one foot slamming into Slash's plastron with every ounce of Leo's weight behind it. Slash stumbles, all the air knocked out of him, and regains his balance in time for Leo to headbutt him, hard enough for stars to burst behind Leo's eyelids.

"Leo!" roars Raph. A green blur blows past Leo, and rams into Slash's side. "Leo, we can't —"

"I know!" Leo yells back, shaking his head to clear it. _Next time, leave the headbutting to Raph_ _and Casey. _"Keep him off balance!"

"Like _that's_ gonna happen," Slash says, shoving to his feet, still aimed at Donnie and Mikey. "Gonna like taking you out, _fearless leader_."

Raph's eyes go wide, a bright, stricken flash as Raph's own words came out of Slash's mouth, so full of hate and anticipation that Leo's gut clenches, and then Raph roars again, both sai raised over his head.

Slash laughs, loud enough to shake the new gravel littering the floor.

_No,_ Leo thinks, as Slash winds up to smash Raph into the floor. Raph's too angry, he's not thinking, he _never_ thinks, never pauses, and he's going to end up smeared all over the floor because he _never learns_.

And Leo can't get to him. He can't take the blow. He starts to run, the seconds stretching out like taffy as Slash's laughter fills his head. Usagi shouts, Donnie folds himself over Mikey, all of them waiting for the blow to land.

Raph drops like a rock at the last second, teeth bared and eyes blanked out. Slash's blow misses his head by half an inch, and Raph stabs both sai into Slash's ankle.

Someday, Leo will stop underestimating Raph.

Slash howls as Raph yanks his sai free. Thick, blue-black blood spurts out of the wound until Slash claps a hand over his ankle. He spins to face Raph, mouth dropping open.

"You'll pay for that, little brother," he grates, and roars, throwing Raph to the floor hard enough that Raph's head bounces when it hits the floor. Raph's eyes white out, then close briefly — but he doesn't yell, and he punches Slash in the face, one, twice, three times before Leo gets there.

He stabs one katana into the sweet spot, all soft flesh and nerve clusters, between Slash's back and his shell, and twists the blade until Slash rolls away, spitting blood. Leo's katana slips out of his sweaty hand, but he lets it go without scrabbling after it — the harder Slash thrashes as he tries to claw the katana out, the more damage he'll do.

"You little — you little _freaks_ —" Slash hisses, gasping, gloriously ignorant of irony. "I'll kill you, I'll crush you — _nnnngh_ —"

Usagi darts in from Leo's left, a little unsteady, but his hands don't shake as he stands over Slash, watching.

Leo shuts out Slash's voice and bends over Raph, pulling him up. "You good?" he asks, while they have a spare second. Raph nods, his gaze sharpening, and cracks his neck.

"I'm _great,_" Raph says, and makes his way to Usagi's side, standing over Slash as he thrashes. Waiting for Leo's order.

But there are still a few things to do, before that can happen. "Mikey, Donnie, you guys?" Leo asks, standing slowly.

"Could be better," says Donnie. When Leo twists his head to look, one eye on Slash's slowing movements, Donnie's propping Mikey up against a wall. "Broken ribs, probably, but I'd need to take a closer look."

"Ugh," says Mikey, eloquently, and gives Leo a thumbs-up.

"Sensei." Leo feels Splinter's awareness hone in on him as he speaks, a faint prickle on the back of his neck. Slash growls, bloody froth muffling the sound, and Raph kicks him in the head. "Can you help Mikey?"

It's an order politely phrased as a question; Splinter hums an affirmative, and starts to pick his way across the floor. Leo takes a deep breath, thinking of the best ways to finish Slash — he's torn between efficiency and making the bastard suffer, just a little — when a shadow at the corner of his eye slips away from the wall, and coalesces behind Splinter.

Slash starts to laugh, bubbling and thick and half-drowned.

Leo turns, katana raised, but he's still three feet away when Karai blooms out of the scraps of shadow, and stabs Splinter under the ribs.

Raph screams, Donnie screams, Mikey screams, but Leo is silent as their father falls. There's no sound in the universe to match this, the great swelling denial that explodes under Leo's skin as Splinter collapses to his knees, then to the floor. _No. Not this._

Splinter's blood drips from Karai's blade. She lifts her head slowly, a drugged sleeper, and meets Leo's eyes. "Hello, hero," she says, and a smile cracks her face, wide and pleased. Her arm pulls back for another thrust: the killing blow, now that she has Leo's attention.

Now Leo screams, and the world whites out around him. In another world, his brothers are still screaming, Slash is laughing, Usagi is calling his name, but all he sees is Splinter's body spilled across the rubble, and Karai smiling at him.

But her smile slips away, leaving her face completely empty until she blinks and looks down at Splinter with something like horror, her sword falling from her hands.

"Oh god, Leo," she says, gasping, hands coming up to ward off a blow. "Leo, I —"

He's going to kill her, he's going to feed her eyes and tongue to her, he's going to tear her apart, the way he should have weeks ago, years ago, he's going to ruin her —

Then the horror melts from her face, replaced by that smile, pleased and unworried as Leo grabs her by the neck. "See you around, Leo," she whispers, and disappears, his fist closing around air. Usagi cries out, sharp dismay like a birdsong, and Leo knows, back where he sits and watches and plans, that Slash is gone too. And here he is, forever the fool, standing in the middle of his ruined home.

Somewhere, Karai is laughing at him.

_Don't think about it_.

Leo kneels beside Splinter, heartsick, dizzy, feeling for the wound, for a pulse. Under his hand, Splinter's chest rises and falls, and as Leo whispers his name, hearing his brothers echo it as they gather close behind him, Splinter's eyes open.

"My sons," he says, weakly, and smiles. He shudders, but still tries to sit up. "Ah," he says, his eyes closing but the smile lingering, "not, I think, a mortal wound. She is out of practice."

Mikey lets out a nervous laugh. The anxiety pressing against Leo's shell lightens, and then he feels Donnie and Raph leaning against him, for just an instant. They're fine. They'll be fine. They have to be fine.

"Raph," he says, when he trusts his voice. "Where's Casey? Your room?" He feels Raph's nod, then eases an arm around Splinter's shoulders. "We'll take Splinter there, and Usagi and Mikey. First aid, then — Donnie, where's Angel?"

"I'm here," says a small voice, from the doorway to the lab. "I'm…I…"

Leo's too full of the tides of his anger to hear her voice break, but he feels Donnie hesitate, nothing more than a held breath.

"Angel," says Donnie, and they all turn to look at him, six pairs of eyes on one face. "Where's April?"


	19. Part Thirteen

"Where's April?" Donnie asks again.

Angel, to her credit, doesn't cringe away from the question. Leo wouldn't blame her if she did — even by his standards, Angel's gone through hell these past few weeks, let alone these past few hours — but she lifts her chin and meets Donnie's eyes, instead of hiding deeper inside April's borrowed hoodie.

_April_.

Leo chances a quick look in Donnie's direction, not knowing what he's going to find, and not at all reassured when he sees how ramrod-straight Donnie is holding himself, and how tightly Donnie's hands are clenched around his bo. In the silence after Donnie's voice fades away, Leo thinks he can hear the wood creaking under Donnie's fingers. He can't see Donnie's face, and he hates himself for being relieved.

"I'm sorry," Angel whispers. "She's gone. There was a woman, and it grabbed her —"

Donnie inhales, almost too quick to be audible. Angel falters, her gaze slipping down to rest on the rubble spread under her feet. Leo pushes out of his crouch at Splinter's side and makes his way to Angel, fatigue burning through his muscles. He rests a hand gently on her shoulder, not pulling her back when she starts to tug away.

"It's not your fault," he says, for her benefit, and for Donnie's. What Donnie knows intellectually at moments like this — at least as far as April is concerned — has very little to do with what comes out of his mouth, and Leo wants to shield Angel from any shrapnel from Donnie's eventual explosion. She's just a kid.

A kid who hauls her eyes back up to Donnie's, and keeps going, telling the whole ugly story.

It's not a long one; April held off what was left of Stockman until the Boar arrived. Then April — and, god, Leo wants to shake April, to yell in her face about not being too proud to ask for help — April used her new powers against the Boar.

Leo knows there hadn't been time for April to yell for help, even if she had wanted to.

"She hurt it," says Angel, still whispering. "Its face, I think she broke it. But then she was — then she was gone, and the woman just stood there, and then she was gone too. I don't know —" She swallows and rubs her eyes with her fists. "I'm sorry," she says, ending the way she'd begun.

"Leo's right. It's not —" Donnie's voice falters, and he inhales again, as sharply as if he'd been stabbed. Leo watches him from the corner of his eye, ready to ride over Donnie's temper, but his brother just sighs, his head falling low between his shoulders, and he swings his bo back into its holder. "It's not your fault," Donnie says, his voice dull, his eyes duller. "Don't be sorry."

Raph reaches out and lays the flat of his hand on Donnie's shell, but Donnie doesn't move, or react at all. He just breathes slowly, and each breath rings in Leo's ears as loudly as a shout. He doesn't know how much this is costing Donnie, but he knows that this is the heart of Donnie's nightmares. It doesn't matter that the Boar has already played on it once; this isn't something that Donnie will ever be able to guard against. And it doesn't matter how closely Leo tries to shield him — this is the one blow that will always get past their defenses: they failed part of their family, and now she's gone.

"Donnie," says Mikey, his hoarse voice crawling out of a bruised throat. He stands up slowly, and puts his hand on Donnie's shell too.

Without thinking, Leo follows their lead, slipping away from Angel's side and covering the high arch of Donnie's shell with his hand, the thin edge cutting into his palm. There's no comfort he can give for this, beyond standing at Donnie's side and being ready to carry whatever his brother needs, same as he would for Raph or Mikey. But Donnie —

Back when Leo still insisted on seeing the world in black and white, he asked Donnie what he would do, if the solution was April, or the world.

_"I've done the math." Donnie finally, finally looks up, eyes dim. "I —" _

_Leo waits. _

_"I could do it, Leo." Donnie stands slowly, like an old man, and walks away, leaving Leo kneeling in front of the tree. At the last minute he turns back, his hand on the doorframe, his eyes flat crimson circles in the candlelight. "Just don't expect anything else from me, if it comes down to that." _

Leo closes his eyes. He hears Casey limping down the hall and Splinter slowly rising to his feet. None of it matters. What matters is what's always mattered: that they began as four, and they do not leave any one of their brothers behind.

But if this is where Donnie breaks, if this is how Donnie's heart is finally carved out of him, then they're all finished. The Boar was wrong, when it said that they would survive losing Raph. Losing one means losing everything, and Leo can already feel himself diminishing, the awful weight of Donnie's grief spreading through his veins. His own grief is a shadow next to Donnie's, but he loves April too, as a sister and a warrior under his charge, and he can almost feel the ragged edges of the spaces where she used to be.

"It lies," Donnie says, after a long time.

Leo opens his eyes. The first things he sees are Raph and Mikey's hands on Donnie's shell, broad and steady. Then Donnie stands up under their touch, his mouth thin and hard.

"It's done this from the beginning," Donnie goes on, his eyes far away, focused on the dark interior of the lab. "It tricks us, it tries to get us to doubt each other, it plays games with our heads. It might not be true." Leo watches Donnie's eyes close, feels a quick, convulsive gasp lift Donnie's shoulders before he keeps talking. "She might still be alive."

"Donnie," says Leo, softly, his chest aching. He can't say anything else. What right does he have to destroy this tender glimpse of faith, when — and he's not too proud to admit this is pure selfishness — it could keep Donnie with them and fighting, just a little longer?

"I'm going to believe it, till I _know_," Donnie says, just as softly. "She could still —" He can't finish, just covers his mouth with one hand and then nods. "She's got to be alive," he says, the words so soft the grit of dust underfoot nearly covers them.

Leo hears Donnie speak, but the words ring hollow in his ears. That footstep didn't come from Casey, or Splinter, or even Angel. It's a point of pride that Leo can recognize his family based on how they sound when they breathe, or by how quickly they round a corner, and there is someone else in the lair.

He spins toward the sound, katana flashing as he draws them, and finds himself staring at a grey-robed man, standing just in front of the turnstiles.

"Who —" Leo says, as his brothers unsheathe their weapons — but that's as far as he gets, because Angel chirps in surprise, stumbling back a few steps. And in the same moment, he hears Donnie hiss one word through his teeth.

_"You._"

The Bull stares placidly at them, its one eye moving slowly over their faces to settle on Donnie. It clasps its hand inside its sleeves, and almost — almost — smiles.

"Donatello," it says, in a resonant, river-slow voice. "You are ready."

Leo turns his head in time to see Donnie's face flash-freeze. Donnie's shell sinks under Leo's hand as he exhales, and doesn't lift again in a new breath. Other than the knife-thin shiver running just under his brother's skin, Leo doesn't feel Donnie moving at all.

Raph and Mikey have gone still, too, at the outer limits of Leo's vision, with Mikey's head lowered like he's ready to charge and Raph's eyes clouded white. Their hands still rest on Donnie's shell, but they're ready for movement, poised on the cusp of action. Of attack.

The rational general in Leo's head — the one who's miles away from all of this, seeing the destruction through a thick, obscuring lens — whispers _this is an ally_, but Leo ignores the voice. Donnie, his tenacious, brilliant brother, still shakes under his hand, and the general is too far away to feel it, too far away to feel anything.

It's not a general's job to feel. But, Leo thinks, sliding his hand down to squeeze Donnie's shoulder, it _is_ a leader's, and a brother's.

Donnie jolts at the contact, as if he wants to shift away from Leo, and curl himself around whatever's left with April gone, but he inhales — and Leo does too, unaware till that moment he — and Mikey, and Raph, too — was holding his breath right along with Donnie.

_Of course we were_, he thinks, and looks back at the Bull.

"Ready for _what_?" Donnie's voice is the dry rasp of stones grinding together. He shakes harder, his breath coming faster, and all Leo can do — all any of them can do — is tighten their grip, and try to keep Donnie from flying apart.

But Donnie's storms will come, no matter how hard Leo tries to anchor him, and Leo feels the howl building in Donnie's chest like a wind coming down from the mountains, weeks of unanswered questions and hopes and now this, the final betrayal: the Bull showing its face only after it could have helped.

"Ready," Donnie says again, without raising his voice, "for _what_." His hands shift on his bo, his jaw clenches, and still he shakes, staring unblinking at the Bull. "To be the _Champion_?" His voice rises on the question, the howl surging behind his words, but the second before it breaks, he sucks in another breath and shudders, his whole body wracked by the movement.

And then — then Donnie is silent, and unmoving, the shiver under his skin vanished, as if it had never been there at all.

Control has always been Leo's domain, like unpredictability is Mikey's, and brute force is Raph's. To see Donnie wielding it so ruthlessly, against _himself_, leaves Leo sick — and yes, in his heart of hearts, _envious_.

_So this is it, _he thinks, letting go of Donnie's arm slowly. _Why I'm not worthy. Because even now, I'm still wanting what he's got. He'll never stop, but he'll never covet. _

Donnie will dream and hope and plan, but he's never been greedy, not on this scale, and Leo's quiet awe is a pale thing next to the weight of his shame.

The half-healed gouges on his arms ache as the Boar's voice curls in his ear: _I know what you are, Leonardo._

Shame is Leo's domain, too.

"You have always been _that_," says the Bull. "This was long-ordained —"

Raph growls, but falls silent, eyes still white, when Leo glares at him. Mikey crowds closer to Donnie, one hand resting at his belt, but doesn't make a sound. Not that Leo expects him to; Mikey's only noisy when he wants to be heard.

"— but you needed to be prepared," finishes the Bull. "The journey is not yet over. Soon, it will be, now that you are ready."

Leo flinches as an unexpected noise grates through the air; it takes him too long to realize that it's Donnie laughing.

The laughter fills the broken lair, just this side of hysterical, without any humor in it at all. Donnie bends at the waist, throwing off his brother's hands as he rocks, breathing in clumsy gasps as he leans on his bo for support.

"Right," Donnie chokes out, still bent over, wiping at his eyes. "Oh, I'm _ready_." He leans on his bo again, face pressed into the curve of his arm and he laughs, and laughs, and laughs, as if his heart is breaking.

Leo watches, horrified, unsure if he should reach out to Donnie again or back away, far away, from the glassy, fragmented laughter circling them all. Mikey stumbles back, one hand out as if he wanted to brace it against Donnie's shell again, but now he shifts toward Angel, who clutches at his arm with both hands. Splinter wavers on his feet, Usagi looks ill, and Casey turns his face into Raph's shoulder.

"Donnie," Leo forces himself to say, when the laughter finally shatters into uneven, torn breaths. "You —"

"No, Leo." Donnie's voice is grey with exhaustion, shredded from the sharp edges of his laughter. "There's nothing you can say — _any _of you — that I want to hear. This has been a nightmare from the start. And you —" Donnie glares at the Bull, who stares back, its white half-face unmoving and unyielding — "you come here _now_, and you say I'm _ready_, and this whole time you've let me swing —" Donnie swallows, his knuckles knotted thick on his bo. "Where is she?" he asks, as his voice falls to a whisper.

The Bull stares at Donnie, its one eye unblinking. Leo's skin prickles, and his joints ache, but all of that is secondary to the silent war of wills in front of him. Donnie holds the Bull's gaze, his mouth a grim, thin line, and doesn't move.

Leo holds his breath.

"What have you done?" Donnie's throat jumps, once, and then he's motionless again, and still staring at the Bull.

A heartbeat later, and the Bull looks away.

Donnie's eyes close, and the same muscle jumps in his neck again. Leo reaches out — he can't _not_ reach out, not now — but his fingers barely brush Donnie's arm before his brother straightens, his eyes opening dead-white. As Leo's hand curls over Donnie's arm, Donnie lifts his bo, and slides it back into its holder with a bone-deep, weary sigh. He takes a step forward, away from Leo, away from his brothers and his family, and toward the Bull. And Leo lets him go, his fingers sliding off Donnie's arm like water, and deep in Leo's heart, there is _still_ that damned envy, and that damned shame.

"What do I have to do?" asks Donnie.

* * *

Donnie expects his walk to the Bull's side to feel years long, or for his feet to drag through the rubble, but it's a short walk, and he steps easily over the stones littering his path.

He expects it to hurt more, to leave his brothers, but once Leo's hand slips from his arm, he only feels a familiar anticipation: now, at least, he can start whatever work is meant for him.

The Bull watches him come with no expression, its hands hidden in its grey, shapeless sleeves. Donnie has plenty of time to watch its face as he climbs the stairs, to commit its bland features to memory. Other than the valley taking up half its head, the Bull is nothing remarkable — just a dour old man, with one gleaming black eye staring back at him. Donnie towers over the Bull — its head barely comes to his shoulders — but he feels like one of his own cell cultures, observed through glassy distance. The old gouges on his legs and feet tingle, the deep wound in his shoulder begins to sting, but it's nothing he can't ignore.

Twenty feet away, Donnie's family watches the Bull watch Donnie. He can sense everyone, but most of all, he's aware of his brothers: Mikey's hesitation, Raph's belligerence, Leo's steady calculation. Pinned between the Bull's gaze, and Leo's, Donnie shivers, and the wound on his shoulder burns.

The Bull lets out a small, satisfied breath.

_Just being around it hurt_, April said. And then she had touched him, said she was _sorry_, and then —

_Don't think about her. _Donnie clenches his teeth, doesn't think of April's face or her hands on the back of his neck, and refuses to ask again, no matter how badly the words want to be spoken.

_Where is she? I didn't thank her. I didn't tell her — she can't be gone. _

It can't matter. He always knew what he would do, given this choice, and here he is, balancing April against the world. But what he told Leo all those years ago isn't true: he's still ready to keep working, even with her gone.

_Of course she's not gone_, he tells himself, watching the Bull's impassive face, barely hearing his family shift below him. _If she was, the Bull would have said so. _

_Right?_

The Bull shakes one hand loose from its sleeve and points toward the dark tunnel beyond the turnstiles. "Walk with me," it says, its voice every bit as blank as its face. Without waiting for Donnie's response — and how could he say _no_? — the Bull turns away, its bare feet slapping on the tiles.

Donnie spares one look over his shoulder, and waits for Leo's nod. But it doesn't come, and Leo's face is drawn and tired.

It's wrong and it's cold, walking into the dark without his brothers. But they know, they _know_, all four of them, that this last step is one Donnie has to take alone, with nothing but his hands, his weapons, and his mind. No one to lead, no one to clear the way, no one to have his back.

_Champion_, he realizes, is just another word for being alone.

He should tell them he loves them. He should say _something_, because these are his brothers, and never, not once, have any of them truly been on their own. Donnie can't even imagine the shape they would take if there were just three. There have _always_ been four, but now they're three, and he's just one. Just himself.

His brothers watch him, everyone else faded into the blurred and ruined background, and Donnie tries to find the words — _I'll be back, _or _Don't do anything stupid_, or _Be safe_ — but none come. This is an amputation, a chasm no words can cross.

No words need to. After this long, in this life, they don't need to say anything. Mikey tries to smile, Raph blinks fast, and Leo lifts his head in a slight, final nod.

Donnie gives himself ten seconds to memorize their faces, and then he follows the Bull.

* * *

The Bull asked Donatello to walk, and so they walk, in silence, the passage of their feet unremarked and silent as they travel the tunnels. If the cold bothers the Champion, he gives no sign; he walks a pace behind the Bull with no complaint, even as their journey takes them through icy, filthy water, and through dank corridors where trains rattle reeking dust from the old walls.

It is a new world, and a dirty one, and the Bull loves it. Every dark street, every forgotten hope, and yes, every petty cruelty, the Bull loves them all, in perfect democracy. There are joys here too, and it delights in them — when a newborn is first cradled close, or when quarrels are mended with peace and not blood — but it is the other side of sweeter efforts it prizes most of all. And why? Why does it love the bitter fruit so?

Because, there are those who keep trying to leave the world a little brighter, and a little cleaner, no matter whether their work is returned with thanks or hate.

It loves the effort and intent as much as it loves the result, and this is something the Boar, in its endless, ravening hunger, can never understand. Their game is old, and while the Boar has never lacked for cunning, it has never placed much weight in wisdom.

That — wisdom, hard-won in blood and a thousand lost worlds — is the Bull's province.

Donatello walks in its footsteps, the wisest choice the Bull has made yet. He is a prize, the finest Champion yet — and the last. If he does not win, there will not be time for another. The Bull has placed all its hopes on his shoulders, and it can only hope they are strong enough to bear what is to come.

The journey is far from over, and what lies next will be the making of this Champion, or his end.

Donatello's pain radiates from him, like heat from a fire. The Bull remembers this kind of pain, this kind of love, but now these things are behind dark, smoked glass, and it cannot touch them.

Each of the Champion's heartbeats stings like a thorn against the Bull's awareness: grief for the woman, her presence still so bright in Donatello's mind; longing for the brothers, familiar and loved since they cracked their eggs.

There are people who are meant to cleave together for a lifetime, or longer. It is simply rare to find so many in one place, like this family built and not made. That family has made Donatello what he is now, and the Bull has made vicious, selfish use of those bonds, straining them to the point of breaking, to push Donatello to this moment: to believe, when all reason for hope is gone.

Faith is a cruel gift.

Out of respect for what Donatello has suffered, and from the knowledge that much of that suffering is from its own design, the Bull breaks the silence first.

"You have questions," it says, over the rush of water. They are drawing close to the docks, where the smell of bodies and their waste is not so strong. Now it smells the far-off scent of the sea that birthed this river, and the oil and rust of the boats floating along it.

A dirty world, yes, but a beautiful one. On the docks, they will be able to see the stars.

"I doubt you'll answer them," Donatello replies, flatly.

The Bull looks back, and finds Donatello's eyes already upon it. He does not recoil at its face, which is good; he does not flinch when it meets his gaze, which is better. Oh, he is _strong_, tenacious and implacable, a will to split the mountains. Things might have been different, if the Bull had found him a hundred years ago, a thousand, when it was not so tired or so desperate.

Well and so, it has found him now. It will ask if he is ready, and he will say yes, and the last, great battle will begin.

_What if he refuses?_ the Bull thinks, turning back to the tunnel stretching out before it. _There is always that chance, though none have refused before. _

_Ah, _it thinks, as its feet splash in a frigid puddle. _He is not like the others. They all broke, in the end. They could not help it, and I do not begrudge them. But he will not_.

A treasure, truly.

"You could ask," it says.

"I could," Donatello says.

The Bull hears him plant his feet, and pauses mid-step to turn once more and face him. Another creature would use its height to buy authority, but Donatello does not. He does not slouch, and though the Bull knows the old wounds on his legs and shoulder pain him, he does not cringe from the pain.

_He will ask about the woman_, thinks the Bull, and feels a bitter pang. That answer will doDonatello no good, though the Bull is prepared to give wants to ask it; the question weighs heavy on his tongue, but as the Bull watches him, he swallows it, like a hot coal.

"What do I have to do?" he asks again.

Surprise is a precious thing, the last pure delight the Bull can name, and it nearly laughs.

Donatello _would_ raise the question himself, that damned need to _know_ driving him, even now.

"For now," says the Bull, so pleased it is hard-pressed not to smile, "I would like to keep walking. We are not there yet."

"Where are we —" Donatello catches himself, hovers on the edge of asking, then nods. "Just...lead the way," he says, his eyes glittering in the near-dark.

The Bull does smile, then, though its face is shrouded and Donatello cannot see. The last lesson

has been learned, the one needful piece of armor: to believe. To have faith, where before there was only reason and fact.

Donatello is truly ready. And that bitter pang turns sharp as steel, piercing the last of the Bull's heart, for how it must reward that faith. Still: there is more to balance than one life, or a thousand. If the Boar is not stopped, this world will fall between its teeth, and then nothing will stand in its way.

The Bull has always paid in lives. It cannot change its currency now.

Another hour passes before they reach the docks. Donatello makes a muffled noise of surprise when the Bull climbs to the surface, then hisses as a chill wind cuts into him. The Bull notices the cold, though it is not bothered by it — but a distant scrap of memory twists, far below the ice-locked surface of its memory: breath steaming in the freezing air, a warm hand covering its nose, resting on its neck, and a deep voice saying _let's go home. _Then warmth, the sweet taste of oats, and laughter, in many voices.

It had not always been this, and the shape it wears is only an illusion. Once, it had been a bull, broad-chested and strong, its horns tipped with iron, and it had traded that certainty for power.

It cannot remember why.

"So," says Donatello, drawing the Bull back to the present. "Why _here_?" Out on the river, a freighter passes, water frothing at its side. He does not look at the building looming behind them, where the Boar made its first open move, and traded one of its knights for Donatello's queen.

Another pang, for the woman this time. The Bull watches the water, and asks its question.

"Will you serve?" it asks, without looking at Donatello. This is what the stories have chosen not to tell: the Bull always asks, and it has never been refused. It has been far too efficient at demonstrating the cost, and its Champions may falter, but they never turn away.

Donatello makes a rough noise that the Bull realizes, belatedly, is a laugh of supreme derision. "I thought that was _obvious_," he says, shivering. "So, _again_: what do I have to do?"

"For now?" answers the Bull, its slow, ancient heart beginning to beat faster. It can taste something sweet and overripe in the chill air; after a moment, it realizes that it is _hope_. "I want you to believe. To listen. To repair what is broken, if only for a time."

Donatello laughs again, and startles when the Bull places its hand on his shoulder. Its thumb rests precisely on the old gouge, and the Bull knows its proximity pains him. "That's it?" he says. "I just stand here, and…fix _what_, exactly?"

"Not here." The taste is stronger now, spreading over every part of the Bull's tongue. If any can do this impossible thing, if any can _win_, it is Donatello, with this new, bitter faith and his damned, yearning heart. "I am sorry," it adds. "You will not enjoy this."

It pushes Donatello over the edge of the dock, into the water. The way opens beneath the waves, a flash of white light so pure it washes all color from the water and the buildings, and swallows the Bull's Champion before he has a chance to cry out.

The Bull blinks away the light, and feels the way close with a soft sigh. No doubt the Boar felt that, and knew what it signified — but it will not be worried. No, the Boar does not _worry_, and its teeth are already sunk deep into that other, broken world. The dying world, all ash and sorrow, with no hope to light its weary dawns.

Will Donatello be that light? The Bull will discover for itself soon enough. Its choice and its methods are cruel, but they are still _wise_, and Donatello the wisest choice of them all.

_Wisest but for one_, it thinks, and smiles up at the stars.

* * *

**_Elsewhen._**

Raphael reaches up to scratch the skin at the edge of his eyepatch, then catches Casey's sharp look and drops his hand with a sigh. "Seriously, Case?" he asks, hooking his thumb in his jacket pocket, where it can't get into any trouble. "You're gonna give me shit about this?"

"Sure am." Casey slings his shotgun over his shoulder and shrugs. "Come on, man, you know the deal. Doc said no itching."

"Doc's full of shit," Raphael grumbles, but keeps his hands where they're at. Doc may be full of shit, and a boozer, but she did manage to save _one_ of Raphael's eyes. "Didn't she used to be a vet?"

Casey raises his eyebrows, but doesn't say anything. Raphael sighs, and tries to ignore the itching as they walk down the sidewalk.

They're ten miles out from the spire, so they don't have to worry too much about cover unless one of the airships goes by overhead — and those are loud enough that there's always plenty of time to make it into the shadow of a bombed-out building or pile-up. Shredder gave up on the whole _ninjas are supposed to be quiet_ thing years ago.

At the next intersection, Alice swings into view, with Mike a half-step behind. Raphael still can't get over the way Mike's left sleeve hangs empty, waving in the cold wind, even though it's been a good fifteen years since Mike lost the arm. By the way Mike's eyes linger on his face, Raphael figures Mike feels the same way about his eye.

"Anything?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

"Nothing but this," says Alice, digging in the pocket of her jeans. She tosses a dusty white tube at Raphael, and gives him a crooked grin. "Thought you might need that."

"Analgesic cream — don't even think about it, Casey," Raphael says, reading the tube and shoving Casey's shoulder with his own. "Got enough to deal with, your puns can go to hell."

"Loser," Casey says, shoving him back and grinning. "Good one, kiddo."

Alice turns her grin on Casey. "Yeah, well. I've got to earn my keep around here somehow, right? Mike's the pretty one, so I'm useful."

"Aw, you're gorgeous," says Mike, right on cue, throwing his arm around Alice's shoulders. She almost laughs, leaning into the hug, and a thick knot of tension in Raphael's gut loosens. She looks good, Alice, alert and clear-eyed, like that run-in with Karai a few weeks back never happened. Leonardo had fought like hell to keep her benched, but with Casey, Mike, and Raphael all arguing for it, he had to give in.

Besides — Alice had been right. They didn't have enough people left to keep anyone on the bench.

"Looks like we've cleaned out this neighborhood," says Raphael, reluctant to break up the moment, but knowing they were daring this little scrap of good luck to turn to shit if they stayed outside any longer than they had to. "Let's head home."

"Maybe there'll be dinner left," Alice says, musingly, and takes point, her police baton swinging at her belt, and her .45 in her left hand. Raphael watches her toss her braid back over her shoulder, and realizes there are grey streaks in the red, under the grime.

_Even the kiddo's getting old_, he thinks, and swallows hard. Casey leans into him, eyes warm and worried, and Mike claps him on the shoulder. Raphael waves them away, pissed with himself for getting all emotional over _reality_ and pissed with them for noticing, and stalks off to catch up with Alice.

Maybe it's from being on his own for so long, with no one to watch his back, but Mike's the one who hears the noise first. He grabs Raphael's arm and drags him back before he turns a corner, then yanks Alice back, so silent it's spooky.

"What —" Raphael hisses, but Mike shakes his head and points to his ear, then around the corner.

Something's moving in the rubble. Someone's coughing.

_Shit_. Raphael waves Alice back with Casey, then presses his shell against the building wall. Mike shoves close to his side, eyes already white, and nods. Raphael counts to three, long enough for the adrenaline to hit his bloodstream and to unsheathe his sai, and then they round the corner, their feet hitting the pavement in unison. Kill first, figure it out later. That's the new game.

Mike heard it first, and Mike stumbles first, when the person in the rubble lifts their head and stares at them, wild-eyed. Raphael makes it another two steps before he fumbles, his brain shorting out and his heart forgetting to beat and he can't hear anything except Mike whispering _no no no no no no no _at his side.

"No," says Raph, dropping to one knee. "_No._"

The person stands up, his arms and legs nine miles long and — and it's not right, it wasn't supposed to be like this, they got old and they fell apart and —

Not like this. Not when the world's about to end.

"Donnie?" says Mike, his voice breaking. "Is that —"

_Is that you?_ Raphael thinks, like a punch to the gut, as Donnie takes a shaky step toward them.

One look is all Raphael needs to know it's not the Donnie they lost. This one's too young, without any of the scars the war left on their Donnie before the war took him. And this one looks like he actually knows what sleep and food are, instead of being all grey and worn-out at the edges.

It's not Raphael's brother. But for a few seconds, it might have been, and coming back to real life after that one flash of hope makes Raphael's spine feel like it's crumbling. He grabs at the collar of his jacket, gasping; all the air's gone out of the world and he can't breathe, he's choking.

Mike's hand fists in his sleeve and pulls him close. They lean on each other like drunks, breathing hard, as the wrong Donnie stumbles toward them.

"Raph?" he says, brown eyes wide, and goddamn it, he's too young but he _sounds_ right, and Raphael still can't breathe. "Mikey? What — your _arm_, Mikey, what happened?"

A laugh explodes out of Raphael, all crazy and jagged, and he slaps a hand over his mouth to hold it in. No one's called Mike _Mikey _in years, and the last person to call him _Raph_ —

— had been Donnie.

"What happened to you?" Donnie asks, his hands held up like he wants to help, like he's ready to _fix_ them, and he sounds so good, still a snotty know-it-all, and oh, _god_, Raphael had missed that.

He staggers to his feet, shrugging out of Mike's grip, and makes his way over the broken street to Donnie.

_It's not Donnie_, he tells himself. _Don't fall for it, it's just another trick. _

Trick or not, it's been twenty years, and Raphael is _tired_. They didn't even have a body to bury.

"Donnie?" he asks, and stops when the insane laughter bubbles up his throat again. _Dammit, Donnie._

"Get away from him, Raphael."

Alice's voice is steel honed to a razor-blue edge. Raphael jolts away from Donnie, reeling, and catches a glimpse of Donnie's face twisting, all confused hurt, before he turns back to face Alice.

She's got her gun leveled at Donnie's face, and her hands aren't shaking.

This isn't a repeat of the run-in with Karai; then, Alice had started screaming, started running toward Karai, firing without aiming, and it took Casey and Raphael to drag her back home.

Raphael had thought that was the worst the Shredder could do to Alice, showing off the woman who killed her mother, but no, this is much worse — the moment of hope, and then the crash back into the truth.

"Wait a second, kiddo," he says, hands up like he's the one she's aiming at. "We need to —"

"You need to get away from him," she says, not blinking. "He's not —" She shivers, but her aim doesn't waver. "He's a trick," she says, a few seconds later. "It's a fucking trick. He's dead."

"Oh, Alice," says Mike. He pushes up slowly. "It might —"

"Shut up!" she screams. Her voice rings off the hollow buildings, throwing up a dozen echoes. Two hot blotches of red flood her cheeks. "Just — shut up! He's not real! It's the Boar!" She gasps, and Raphael sees her finger shift toward the trigger.

He leaps forward and grabs her wrist just before she fires, the shot going wild into the air and startling a flock of pigeons off the roof — _the last pigeons in New York_, he thinks, ears ringing from the shot.

"You want us to get killed?" he hisses, squeezing her wrist till the gun falls from her loose fingers.

Alice glares at him, teeth bared. "I want him dead," she hisses back. "You guys want to die over this, that's your call. Not me." Her mouth trembles. "He _died_, Raphael," she says, just for his ears. "My dad is dead."

"I know." Raphael picks up the gun, holds it like it'll bite him. "Kiddo, I know."

"Then how —" Alice swallows, and closes her eyes. "No." She's pulled out of Raph's grip before he knows what she's doing, with all of April's speed, and she slams past Mike, straight at the bewildered Donnie who's still blinking at all of them.

She gets in one good hit with her baton, right on the side of Donnie's head, before Mike and Raphael pull her off. And Donnie just _takes_ it, falling to his knees like he's been expecting the blow from the beginning.

"You _dumbass!_" Raphael yells. "You really are gonna get us killed — Casey, Mike, get her back to the compound, Leonardo can deal with her."

Alice laughs, jeering and cold. "Yeah, send me back to Leonardo, let him deal with my shit." She laughs again, and shakes off Mike's arm. "Don't come near me," she spits at Donnie, and turns away, stalking through the rubble with her head high.

With a backward glance at Raphael, Mike and Casey follow her, weapons out. Who knows what the shot and all that yelling stirred up?

Nothing good.

Raphael turns back to where Donnie's still kneeling in the rubble, one hand rubbing his head, his eyes dazed and far away. "What the hell?" he whispers. "What are you…who are you?"

Donnie looks up, and gives Raphael a crooked smile that chills him, straight to his heart. "I'm just Donnie," he says, and coughs into the crook of his arm. "The Bull sent me."


	20. Part Fourteen

The lair's so quiet Mikey can hear bits of dust tumbling out of the hole in the wall. There's a leaking pipe somewhere nearby that's the loudest thing in the room, a steady _drip-drip-drip_, tightening Mikey's jaw a little more every second.

Then Splinter gasps, as Mikey dabs antiseptic along the edges of the ragged hole in his side, and all the other sounds disappear. Everyone's heads snap around to stare, and Mikey fights to keep from shrinking into his shell.

"Sorry, Sensei," he murmurs, his voice all scratched up, "but this is gonna sting."

"It is all right, my son," Splinter replies, and Mikey swallows hard. These days, Splinter only busts out with the _my son_ thing when the shit has truly hit the fan, and if Mikey wanted to hide inside his shell before, it's pretty much a compulsion now. Not that hiding would do him any good. The lair would still be a mess and there'd still be extra holes in the people Mikey loves on top of the hole in the wall. And Donnie would still be gone.

So, hiding's out. All he can do is get Splinter cleaned up and bandaged, and then see if Leo's got any plans in that big old brain of his.

He's used to the whole medic thing, because surprise surprise, he's the one with the steadiest hands even if Donnie's got a whole hospital in his head, but there's no bright side to cleaning blood out of your dad's fur or sewing up your brother's legs when he gets used as a chew toy. Normally Mikey's all about bragging rights, but he'd be happy to take a pass this time around if it means things could go back to the same old.

_Not likely_, he thinks as he tosses the fistful of gauze into a trashbag. _Not a whole lot of same old left around here_.

So Mikey gets Splinter cleaned up, listens to his lungs to make sure Karai didn't puncture anything, then slaps on a bandage and lets himself be satisfied over a job well done. That good feeling lasts for as long as it takes him to straighten up and crack his neck, and then the wreckage of the lair pours back in and he's drowning in the noise inside his brain: _Slash is back Slash was here Karai stabbed Sensei and April is gone and Donnie left Donnie left Donnie left. _

Meditating's not going to help, and thinking happy thoughts will get him _nowhere_. The only thing that'd really help is getting to take a few slices out of the Boar — but that's not happening any time soon, and bacon puns won't fill the empty hole in his chest. Mikey's spacey, he gets it, but he's not dumb, and what they're looking at is just subtraction: there were six fighters, seven if you count Usagi, and now they're down to three.

Something cold and sticky oozes down his spine. _Maybe that's what the Boar's been doing_, he thinks, chewing on the inside of his cheek. _Just wearing us down, making us smaller_.

Probably Donnie would've figured that out already, and had a fancy word for it. But Donnie's gone, and Mikey can't help thinking that it's just what the Boar wants, even if it was the Bull that Donnie followed out of the lair: the Champion's out of the way.

So what happens next?

He glances over at Leo, who's having his own first-aid party with Usagi on the opposite side of the couch. Usagi can walk, but he's not going to be fighting anytime soon — and he knows it, going by the tight little frown puckering up his face. And then there's all six feet of Casey, too busted to do anything but wince while Raph cleans out the hole under his arm.

The family's a lot smaller than it was, even if Mikey and his bros aren't the ones who got hurt. That's an ugly little thought on its own — Mikey'd rather be the one hurting than the one cleaning up, it's simpler that way, less to worry about — but what comes after is even worse: maybe it's not just about taking out fighters, maybe it's about making it harder for whoever's left to keep fighting.

Mikey blames his next shiver on the cold air pouring through the hole.

"All right," he says, and gives Splinter's shoulder a squeeze. "You're good, sensei." Talking hurts, but he'll deal if it gets rid of the silence. There's got to be a little noise, to cover up what's not here anymore. So he pushes on, even though his throat burns with every word. "Anyone else need any help from Dr. Shellenstein?"

Leo shakes his head, Raph ignores him, and Splinter squeezes his shoulder back as he stands and heads for the kitchen. Mikey glances around, till his eyes fall on Angel, who's all balled up in a corner of the couch. She chews on the cuff of April's hoodie, her eyes totally blank, and just like that, Mikey's got a mission.

"Hey," he whispers, flopping down next to her, hard enough to make her bounce. She smiles around the cuff, but keeps chewing. _April's gonna be pissed_, Mikey thinks, then slaps that thought down. Bad idea, to think about April right now. "You doin' okay?"

Angel shrugs, her eyes sliding away from his, back to the hole in the wall. "Depends on what you mean by _okay_." She lets the sleeve fall out of her mouth. "I didn't get hurt or anything, but — is it always this bad? Do you guys always get your asses handed to you like that?"

Mikey reminds himself that Angel's nineteen, that she's never dealt with anything remotely like this because Milagros made sure her Angel didn't have to, and that she's not trying to be an asshole. Still, the back of his neck prickles, and he takes a minute to think over what he wants to say.

"You're lucky you didn't ask _Raph_ that," he says, sinking a little lower into the couch. Angel's eyes flick to Raph, who's glowering at a roll of gauze like it just farted into his protein shake. Mikey sees her get the hint. She doesn't apologize, but her voice is a little kinder when she talks next.

"Yeah, I — it just seems so hopeless, you know? Is this what you guys deal with all the time?" Angel gives him a look that says she really hopes they don't, and Mikey's relieved he can give her that much comfort.

"Things usually go more our way," he says, not letting himself think about being fifteen and watching Shredder take out his bros, one by one. And most definitely he doesn't think about Slash, nope, he doesn't. "This whole…Boar and Bull thing, it's not exactly our usual fight."

Angel snorts. "Tell me about it. I don't even — I just wanted to keep my gran safe, and now all this…" She waves a hand at the lair, then shifts deeper in the couch. "What do you guys do now? Wait?"

"Plans are Leo's thing." Mikey lets his head fall against the back of the couch. That stupid broken pipe keeps leaking, and with their luck, it's a hot water pipe, which means no blasting tonight away for a few minutes with a shower. _Not that I wanna be in the shower_, Mikey thinks, remembering the stink and the steam and all the _teeth_ coming at his face. "He'll figure something out."

Angel gives Mikey a look that clearly says _yeah, right_, then tugs the hood over her head. "But _until_ then?" she asks. "We just sit here, wait to get told what to do? _That's_ a great plan."

_She's nineteen. She's freaked out_. Mikey holds his breath to make sure he doesn't say anything crappy. He glances at Splinter, who's just coming out of the kitchen with a tray covered in tea mugs. _Were we ever this bad?_ he asks Splinter silently, and even though his dad doesn't look his way, Mikey hears his voice, loud and clear. _Oh, no, Michelangelo, you were _much_ worse. _

"You got any suggestions?" he teases, which is a lot better than biting her head off, but Angel just shrugs and goes back to chewing on the cuff. _She's scared_, he tells himself. _Some livestock god-thing drove her around and then she got to see us get our shells kicked, and before all _that_ she was finding out home isn't home anymore. _

He starts to lean in for a quick one-armed hug, nothing fancy, but another thought starts nibbling at the edges of his brain. He tries to ignore it, because it's probably that memory of Donnie walking away, his shoulders curved in and his head low, or it'll be Donnie asking _where's April_, and Mikey can't handle any of that right now.

But the thought keeps nibbling, little bites he can't ignore, and finally he lets himself pay attention.

_Where had Angel been, when she met us at her apartment?_

Mikey sits up straight, like someone just hit him with a cattle prod. He'd been so busy being freaked out at what had happened to his grannies, and the smell of that resin was stinking up everything — he never asked one stupid little question: _where were you_?

He can totally ask now. Not like he has anything better to do. So he clears his throat, winces, and then leans back, all casual.

"Hey, Angel?" Mikey asks, once everyone's got their tea. "Remember when we met you in your apartment, a couple weeks ago?" He kept his voice nice and low, but Leo's head snaps around so fast his mask tails hit him in the cheek. Mikey doesn't look his way, but he tips his head in Leo's direction. _I got this, bro._

Leo nods once, but he's watching Angel, and now Raph is too.

"Like I'm gonna _forget_," says Angel, against the rim of her mug. Then her eyes narrow, and Mikey groans silently. Yeah, she's nineteen, but she's not stupid. No one who lives in her neighborhood is. So now she knows he's got an angle.

"You were comin' back from somewhere," he says, not even trying to sound like there isn't a point to the question. Everyone's paying attention now. "Where?"

"I dunno." Angel throws him a sulky glare, but Mikey just takes a long drink of tea. He can wait her out if she plays dumb, but she's already up to her neck in this spooky crap. It's not her fault, but she _knows_ something — and, Mikey thinks, his throat aching so much he can barely swallow, as Donnie would say: _all information is worth having_.

"You gotta know," he says, nudging her foot, smiling a little. Leo's eyes are burning holes in the side of his head, ready to jump in if Mikey goes off the road, but Mikey's not worried. He saw the flash in Angel's eyes, one little spark that told him all he needed to know. He just needs to push.

"I _don't_," Angel snaps, that flash glittering in her eyes again. She's not scared, but she's uncomfortable.

Good. Mikey can use that. People say all kinds of things when they're uncomfortable.

_All information_ _is worth having_.

"What'd the Bull have you do?" he asks, hard now, like he's pissed off, and Angel's mouth drops open. Mikey was the safe one, he's been careful to be cool and non-threatening, so when he's not anymore —

"I told you, I don't know!" she half-yells, pushing away from him and spilling tea down the front of April's hoodie. "All it wanted me to do was carry a message and look where that got me! I can't go home, I'm stuck here, there are monsters _everywhere_, I can't stop smelling freaking _ashes_ —"

Something hits the pause button in her brain, and she gapes at Mikey. "Shit," she whispers, eyes wide.

Leo blows out a long breath, Raph falls back against his part of the couch, and Mikey takes another sip of tea.

"I don't know — I don't remember," says Angel. "But I was - there were ashes, I think…shit. _Shit_." Anger makes her voice shake, and her hands tighten on her mug. "It's like part of my brain just fell off."

"It's okay," says Mikey, trying to sound safe again. He doesn't hug her or anything, but he smiles, all encouraging. "What do you remember?"

"Just…" Angel fades out, her dark eyes all starry and far-away, and Leo tenses again, just a little. Good thing he's not in Angel's line of vision. "Just like, a church, or whatever. Something old. It was all wrecked, like there'd been a fire or something." She shivers. "It was…creepy."

"A fire?" says Raph. He stands up, his hands still full of gauze, and turns to Leo.

Who's gone all stiff, the light that's left making the scars on his arms show up clear as the subway tracks outside.

"You sure?" Mikey asks Angel. She flinches a little, but he doesn't care. She can't get this wrong. "What else do you remember?"

Angel swallows, glancing at Leo and Raph, and then back to Mikey. "Yeah, I'm sure." She's caught the new edge in the air, how every word's razor-sharp, and she flinches a little more as everyone stares at her.

"Nothing, I don't — oh god, I went inside," she blurts out, like the memory just jumped out at her. Once the memories get started they just keep coming, pouring out of her in a big slushy run of words. "And there were like, pools in the ground, there were these huge windows, and it went down, so far, and — you guys know what I'm talking about, don't you? You've been there?"

She leans toward Mikey, eyes pleading for some reward for getting it right. The kid wants to help so bad, and it kills Mikey to look away, to not give her what she needs.

"An old building like a church," says Leo. His hand goes to the back of his head, rubbing in a slow circle. Mikey stands up, inches a little closer, but freezes when Leo pins him with a miserable, exhausted look. "Yeah," he says. "We know it."

There's a pause while everyone digests that little nugget of information — because things couldn't stay at life-ruining levels of awful, they had to drop right to _apocalyptically terrible._

"What's up with the church?" Angel asks, even though her voice says she really isn't looking forward to getting her answer.

No one answers her. They — Mikey included — are all too busy trying not to look at Leo. But they're all hearing the flames, and the Foot screaming as they died, and something roaring underneath it all. Mikey bets they're all seeing what Leo looked like when they hauled him out of the basement.

"Not-so-ancient history," Leo says, still rubbing the knot of scars on his neck.

* * *

Mikey isn't sure what he expected. Maybe some obvious _hey! I used to be your arch-enemy's headquarters, but I've been upgraded to evil god's fun house! _signs, like pentagrams and black candles everywhere, like the posters Casey's had up in his room back when they were teenagers. But _no, _that'd be too easy.

Shredder's headquarters is still a burned-out wreck. Probably the city thought it'd be too much hassle to clean up a fire in a neighborhood where no one with half a brain ever went, so they just left the ashpiles to blow away in the first strong wind, and the building's been rotting down to the foundations ever since.

Good. Let the whole thing fall apart so no one ever has to think about it ever again.

He doesn't realize he's breathing hard till Raph shoves him, and then nods at Leo when Mikey glares. Leo ignores them, just stares up at the door, nothing in his face or his eyes. It's like he doesn't even see it.

"So what now?" says Raph, loud enough to make Mikey check up and down the street for anyone listening. The lights in the crappy apartments stay out, either because no one lives here, or because — and Mikey would bet his next five pizzas on this being the answer — no one's paying attention. No one _ever_ pays attention. "You got a plan, Leo?"

Nine times out of ten, the only thing Raph's tough love routine does is make things worse, but tonight's the rare occasion that it works. Mikey watches Leo settle back into himself, in charge again. Relief, cold as orange soda straight from the fridge, floods Mikey. If _Leo_ can keep it together, then Mikey's got no excuse.

"Not really a lot of room for a plan," Leo says, hauling up a grim little smile. "Angel was sent here for a reason —"

"_Obviously_," snots Raph, folding his arms. Leo's eyes narrow, but his arms relax a little where they're crossed over his chest, so Raph hasn't crossed the line yet. "And what _was_ that reason?" he asks, jerking a thumb at the building. "Any idea what the Bull made her do, now that we're here? You know, since we can't _ask her_?"

As much as Mikey agreed with leaving Angel in the lair, it might've been nice to bring her along, in case she had any last-minute brainwaves once they got her on location. But Leo didn't wait for her to offer, and gave her his number-one _I'm the leader, and you're going to listen whether you like it or not_ look, and she just deflated back onto the couch.

It's about minimizing risk. Raph'll be a little slow to grok that, but Mikey gets it. Maybe the Bull was okay with sending Angel into the dark, but Leo will never let a kid do his dirty work. So she's back at the lair, helping Usagi clean up, and probably she'll stay pissed off at Leo for the next thousand years, but she'll be safe.

Pretty ironic how the lair's probably the safest place in the city right now. Mikey's not quite sure _why_ he's so sure about that, but they've given the Boar all the fun it's going to get for a while. It'll stay away. Hopefully.

"We'll do a sweep," Leo says. "Eyes only, then we'll go in. One floor at a time. Nice and slow."

They sprint across the road, then huddle up in the shadow of the doorway. Mikey's brain tries to tell him he can still smell smoke, but that's a lie. Seven years of rain and snow and being baked in the sun have blasted everything but the smell of decaying wood and mold away. The door's still in one piece, warped half-open in its frame, and beyond it, the floor's completely collapsed. Like a big, toothless, stinking mouth — and that's as far as Mikey lets that thought go. He stuffs it far down, where everything hurts and the hole in his chest keeps growing, and then he ignores it.

"I don't see anything." He squints into the dark, listening with more than just his ears. No one's here. Not too long ago, birds nested here, and raccoons made smelly little cocoons for themselves, but not anymore.

_Probably got eaten_, he thinks, too fast to stop himself.

"You sure?" A flashlight's beam hits the left side of the door. When Mikey looks back, Raph raises his brows, and wiggles the flashlight.

"What? I came prepared," he says, smug and smirking.

Mikey ducks down to give Raph room to let the beam trace the ragged edges of the floor. There's nothing at first, just old bits of carpet and splintered wood, and Mikey lets himself start to think this is a dead end when the beam falls on a sticky, gleaming smear of resin on the carpet.

"Oh, _no_," he whispers, rubbing at his throat when the words sting.

_DOWN_. Footprints are smudged into the grime all around the letters, just the right size for a nineteen-year-old in Converse.

_DOWN._ _DOWN. DOWN._ The word's everywhere, painted so many times that it stops making sense.

"The Bull's been busy," Leo murmurs. He holds out his hand for the flashlight, and shines it into the gaping hole. "Looks like we've got a plan," he tells Raph, before he shoulders his way through the door.

* * *

There's still a vague order to the church, and they fought through enough of these hallways to make their way through with only one flashlight. Mikey catches himself humming as they pass through what's left of the Foot barracks and dojos, and swallows it down, cringing.

He's in the middle, Leo on point with Raph as the caboose. Familiar pattern, but the space between him and Leo is too small, and so _wrong_ it makes Mikey's hands itch toward his nunchuks.

Donnie should be there — _but he's not,_ he tells himself, keeping his eyes front and straining his ears for any noises that don't belong in a dead old church. _So suck it up and pay attention_.

"How much farther do we have to go?" Mikey asks. His voice bounces off the walls, even though he's pretty much whispering. Too much empty space, too many blank rooms behind broken doors.

Leo flicks the flashlight to the wall on their left. _DOWN_. "A little farther," he says, and that _might_ be a sarcastic smile in his voice, but it's too dark for Mikey to tell.

"You guys seriously think Angel doesn't remember coming all the way down here?" Raph asks, coming up close on Mikey's shell so he doesn't have to yell. "This isn't something most people forget."

"Yeah, and _most people_ aren't being driven by some weird god-thing, so…" Mikey turns around long enough to give Raph the best _duh _look he can. "So give Angel a pass, okay? It's kind of a good thing she can't remember, I mean, _look_ at this place. Addams Family Central."

"Cut the chatter," says Leo. He stops, sweeping the floor in front of him with the flashlight's beam. Raph grumbles to himself, something about bugs, and Mikey bites both cheeks to keep from saying anything Raph will make him regret. Besides, there'd just be an empty place where Donnie's laugh is supposed to be. "We've got stairs," Leo adds, aiming the flashlight at the corner of the room.

"Oh no," says Mikey as his spine tightens up. "Nope. No way. I've seen like a thousand horror movies and I know exactly what's gonna happen. We do _not_ go down those — seriously, Leo? You're goin' down?"

Raph snorts — Mikey almost sticks out his tongue at him, because he's _so glad_ Raph's handling this so well, seriously, he is — then follows Leo and the bobbing flashlight glow.

"You first," says Mikey, in unison with Raph. He groans, then starts to stomp down the stairs — and nearly slips on the slick stones. "Ugh, watch yourselves, guys, this is a —"

He can't see Leo ahead of him, flashlight or not. "Leo? You there?" Raph leans against his shell, trying to see into the dark, and Mikey nearly falls again. Mikey slams a hand up against the wall in time to keep himself from turning into turtle jelly at the bottom of the stairs, then calls again. "Leo! Where are you?"

"Shh!" comes Leo's voice, much farther away than Mikey wants him to be. "Get down here — now. And be _quiet_."

"Because ninjas are supposed to be quiet, right," Mikey mutters, inching down the stairs with Raph sticking close behind him. "A little light would be nice, bro — oh, nice, thanks."

A soft glow fills the hallway in front of him, warm and inviting. The air's warm here too, not freezing like it is upstairs, and humid as a greenhouse. Mikey hurries toward it, more than ready to thaw out, and he's just caught sight of Leo's silhouette when he realizes that the light is green, not yellow.

He skids to a stop, his stomach dropping right to his feet, and only Raph crashing into his shell keeps him from bolting right back up the stairs. No way does he want to know what's making that light.

"Come on," says Raph. He grabs Mikey's arm and tugs him along, toward Leo, and the green light seeping up from a hole in the floor. "We gotta do this, Mikey."

_No, we don't_, Mikey nearly yells, as they pull even with Leo. He keeps his mouth shut, though, because yelling's the only idea that might be worse than going toward the light. Yelling might get something's attention.

He doesn't want to look. He stares at his feet, and the sheer drop a few inches from his toes, but he doesn't look into the huge pool of light below them, not until Raph makes a noise like he's choking.

Then, there's just one word he can say, and his throat aches trying to hold it in before it forces itself out.

"Teeth," he says faintly, staring down at the glittering walls, every inch covered by a forest of jade-green, gleaming teeth. A clean white light burns at the center, tinted green by the teeth as its rays travel up toward Mikey and his brothers.

"So," whispers Mikey. "Looks like we know what the Bull wanted us to see."

* * *

**_Elsewhen._**

Donnie may have spent most of his life under New York instead of walking through it, but he knows the city. Even the dying version spread out around him matches the map in his head, and he knows, from one glance at a few ruined buildings and a broken street, where they are. And he knows, as soon as Raph's double pulls him to his feet and starts walking, that they're not heading toward the lair.

Raph's double. His old, one-eyed, grey-edged double, pacing silently beside him, hands stuffed into the pockets of his bomber jacket.

There are a million crucial questions that Donnie should be asking, but his head hasn't stopped throbbing where the red-haired woman hit him, and his curiosity is far outweighed by self-preservation. For now. The first layer of shock and exhaustion is sloughing off; now Donnie feels naked, over-exposed, a worm wriggling on hot pavement. He doesn't sense anything living, beyond the four people surrounding him, but he can hear the buildings crumbling, and a cold, insistent wind bites at his arms and legs.

The wind —

"So," says Raph's double. "What's your story?" He doesn't bother to hide how badly he doesn't want to be talking to Donnie, and Donnie would ignore him and let them go back to their separate, miserable silences if he didn't think that would only make things worse.

"I told you. The Bull sent me," he says, picking his way around mountains of crumbled asphalt. Huge pieces were sheared out of the street, and their edges are half-melted, smeared like badly-applied paint.

The street burned, Donnie realizes, and looks away, quick as he can, from the car pinned under the largest pile.

Raph's double snorts, and picks at the edge of his eyepatch. "Yeah, I got that much. But why? Sent you for what?" A bright green eye turns in Donnie's direction, then darts away when Donnie tries to meet it.

"Some kinda…Hail Mary? Or what? Why'd it send you?" His voice rises, roughened by years of yelling and who knows how much heartbreak, and he stops dead in the street, feet planted on the broken asphalt, and stares up at Donnie. "What good did it think you'd do?" Raph's double asks, bitter past words, and the wind carries his voice away, into the dark city.

"Keep up and shut up," calls the red-haired woman, without looking back. "You want to get all feelsy, do it on your own time." Mikey's double leans in close to murmur something to her, but she pushes him away, and picks up the pace. Her braid swings as she moves, one bright flash — and Donnie slams that mental door shut, before he can think of April, or imagine her face.

The turtle at Donnie's side sighs, shrinking into his jacket. "Look, whatever you're here for? You've gotta know how this looks. You show up, after all this —" He tilts his head at the city, his eye catching the last smudged sunlight. "We've been tricked before, you know," he says. "Can't blame her for —"

He looks at Donnie, _really _looks for the first time. Donnie's skin crawls; he knows Raph's face, would know it anywhere, no matter how much time had passed, but this isn't Raph. It feels like a surrender to admit that, but this is not his brother. Never has been, never will be. And the turtle ahead of them is missing more than his arm, he's missing the elusive, mercurial brightness that made Mikey _Mikey_.

_What happened to this Leo?_ Donnie thinks, and shudders. He'll know soon enough, won't he?

The turtle keeps staring at him, eye narrowed, mouth drawn tight. In all the essentials, this is still Raph: bulky, overpowered body, broad shoulders, thick legs, a bull-like tilt to his head, ready to fight — but there's so much _missing_ that Donnie's heart beats slower.

The thought must have shown on his face, no matter how hard Donnie tried to hide it. Raph's double sneers at him, then stalks off.

"Forget I asked," he says. "Let's go. Leonardo'll want to see you."

_Leonardo?_ Donnie shudders again, and hurries after the little group.

_Why me_? he asks the Bull, out of habit, as he tries not to trip over a rusted bicycle. _What you do you want me to do? _

There's no answer, but Donnie's starting to find that comforting. The absence — at least that's familiar.

* * *

The comparative silence that falls around him once they walk into the compound tells Donnie that they've brought him in through a back door. He shouldn't be hurt — their reasons are good ones, but it stings, being shut in a freight elevator and riding up in silence with four people who won't even look at him.

Casey — god, _Casey_, rangy and scrawny, his hands scarred with old burns, he's so familiar Donnie could scream — tries to make a joke, some lame line about getting the band back together, but the red-haired woman glares at him with steel-hard brown eyes, and Raph — no, _Raphael_ — just sighs his name. No one tries to talk after that. Mikey's double picks at paint blisters, the elevator shudders and wheezes its way to the top of the shaft, and Donnie's the first one out, his ears throbbing with the forced silence. Even screaming would be better than this.

"Down the hall," says Raphael. "Last door on the right. He's waiting."

"He knows?" Donnie asks. The cold and the silence have left his voice reedy, a distant echo of what it should be. _What happened to you_? he asks silently, as Mikey's double climbs out of the elevator. _What happened to all of you_?

"Yeah, the boss knows," says Casey. He squeezes Raphael's shoulder once, then steps back into the elevator and slides the grate shut. "We'll be down in —" His eyes cut to Donnie, and a thin, wary light gleams in his gaze. "We'll be around when you guys are done," he finishes.

The red-haired woman hits the controls, then folds herself back into her corner, arms tight over her chest. In the instant before the elevator disappears down the shaft, she looks up, and Donnie sees her face clearly for the first time: freckles on her nose and cheeks, a sullen cast to her mouth —

Donnie watched her die, and he doesn't know her name.

He turns around to find the others — the unbrothers — staring at him, their faces unreadable. Fighting the urge to back away and reach for his bo — Donnie's sure that would go over _so _well — he holds up his hands, and tries to smile.

"Sorry," he says, not sure what he's apologizing for. For wearing their brother's face, for just existing. "It's just — odd. I've…" He falters, flummoxed into silence, because how do you say _So, I saw you all in a dream, and you were fighting the Foot. They were winning, and I watched Karai stab that woman to death. What next?_

Donnie shudders again, his mouth going sour. The blade broke against the stones under the woman's back, and she made a sound like rain through the grass. He slams the mental door again, hard as he can, and hopes it holds.

"You're tellin' us," says Mikey's double. "Dude, Donnie, I never thought —" He rubs his face, eyes wide and too-bright. "This is — I mean — Raphael, are you seein' this? It's —"

"Yeah, I see it, Mike," says Raphael. He puts a hand on Mikey's shoulder, and pushes him down the hall. "C'mon. We don't have time to waste."

_Mike_, Donnie mouths to himself.

The door at the end of the hall stands open, ready to welcome them in. Raphael and Mike stand back and let Donnie walk in first, then follow him and shut the door behind them.

A window takes up one entire wall, letting in the flimsy light that leaks through the low-hanging clouds. Heavy curtains frame the window on either side, The room itself is spartan, with only a broken couch and a few cushions littering the floor. Incense burns on a table shunted off to one side, and Donnie breathes in deep, grateful for the warmth and for the familiar smells of sandalwood and cedar.

"So," says a quiet, amused voice. "It looks like the Bull has a sense of humor, too."

Donnie turns toward the sound, his heart sinking and his fists clenching when Leonardo looks away from the window, and smiles at him. In his dark coat, in the faint light, Leonardo almost disappears, but his smile is a bright, familiar sliver — one that cuts Donnie straight through, and knocks all his questions out of his head.

"Leo," he chokes out, eventually, and feels Raphael and Mike flinch behind him. He catches himself, eyes stinging, the last numb armor slipping away. "Leonardo, what _happened_?"

The last unbrother watches him for a long time, the smile lingering at the corners of his mouth. Slowly, he takes off his dark glasses, and polishes them on his coat. His eyes are pale, the blue irises faded to grey at the edges, but still he keeps _smiling_, like this moment is a reason to celebrate. By the time he puts his glasses back on, Donnie has to remind himself not to smile back.

They're not his brothers. They're_ not_.

Leonardo steps away from the window, limned by grey light that turns silver when it touches his shoulders and the curve of his shell under his coat. He reaches out with both hands, and Donnie holds perfectly still as Leonardo takes him by both shoulders, and then bursts out laughing.

"My god," he says, his voice stuttering and tripping over a relief so vast it could fill the city, a long-hidden golden light, "Donnie, it's so _good_ to see you."

Leonardo crushes him into a hug, still laughing, so unexpectedly that Donnie can't resist — not that he would, given the choice. Donnie's seen enough of this world — what's left of it, that is — to know that there's precious little to hope for, just another day of eking out some kind of half-life in the broken stones. No matter why he's been sent, no matter what his mission, he's got no right to steal this from the unbrothers surrounding him.

A few seconds pass, and Leonardo's hug stays firm, an anchor, holding Donnie in place. Then Mike presses close, his arm slung tight around Donnie's shoulders, and with a thick mutter that Donnie doesn't catch, Raphael joins the hug, his jacket creaking as he stretches.

The shapes are all wrong. There are jagged edges to Leonardo's shell that Donnie can feel through the coat, Mikey's missing arm is a phantom weight on Donnie's shoulder, and Raphael is too solid, all strength and no speed, but when it's obvious they're not letting go, Donnie lifts his arms and hugs them back. Slowly, carefully, in case he sets off some fight-or-flight instinct, because he knows and they know he's not the brother they're mourning, but when they don't resist, he hugs them back, just as fiercely. He can still feel his own brothers' hands on his shell, the silent goodbye before he walked away, and he hopes — he almost _prays_, for the first time in his life — that the other Donnie, the one who would belong in this hug, made sure these brothers knew he loved them before he walked away.

* * *

They make him dinner. It isn't much, just beans and rice, with a dusty bottle of hot sauce that Mike hauls out of his knapsack with a smile that Donnie feels like a kick in the stomach. But the food is warm, and he feels something like wonder flowing out of them — for this chance to set four places, instead of three.

Donnie's starving, can't remember the last time he ate —

_That's a lie, April made you toast, remember? But there's no April here. There are three brothers, not four, and there's Casey, and there's that dead woman walking, but no Splinter. They haven't even said his name. _

_No Splinter, no April, no you. What happened, Donnie? _

_Can you fix all _this, _Donnie? _

_Can you? _

He slams the mental door again.

— but he pauses before he picks up his fork, because he hasn't gotten much of a chance to really look at them. Not all together, that is. Now that he can snatch a few seconds to watch, without being scrutinized from all angles, he can't help looking for echoes of the brothers he knows, the ones waiting for him to come home.

The echoes are there, like shallow ripples in the koi pond back home. Mike eats quickly, while Leonardo savors every bite and Raphael keeps strict boundaries between the rice and the beans. Donnie nearly comments on it, and catches himself just in time. It's not going to do any good if he starts comparing worlds out loud, and the peace between them is a fragile one, weak as the fading sunlight coming in through the window.

He has to say _something_; he's still himself, no matter where he is right now, and it's not like there's a shortage of questions he wants to ask.

"Is that…a good idea?" Donnie asks, cringing a bit when all three brothers pause with their forks halfway to their mouths. "Keeping the window open like that," he specifies, like he should have done right away.

Mike goes back to eating after a quick glance in Leo's direction, while Raphael grunts and shrugs. Leonardo sets his fork aside, still full, and wipes his mouth with a thumb.

"It really doesn't matter what we do," he says. His glasses flash white in the light, still opaque, as he looks at Donnie. "The Boar — the Boar knows where we are. We're not trying to hide."

Donnie's fork tumbles out of his numb hand. Rice spatters across the low table, but no one seems to care about the mess. They're looking at him with the same mild surprise spread over three faces, and as hard as he tries to yell _what do you mean, it _knows_?, _no words come out.

"You're _not_?" he finally manages. He knows he sounds like an idiot, but this is so far beyond what he expected that he can't think past the fact that _the Boar knows_. How that fact isn't cause for immediate and prolonged panic is beyond him. He picks up his fork to give himself time to think, then ends up blurting out, "Why not? It's —"

The look the brothers share shuts Donnie up so fast his teeth slam closed on his tongue and he winces, tasting blood in the back of his mouth.

"It's what?" says Raphael. "Crazy?"

"Suicidal?" Mike supplies.

"For a start!" Donnie presses both hands to his head and tries to ignore his racing pulse. _The Boar knows_. _It knows_. As calmly as he can, he says, "Look, I know I'm — I'm not — it's not my place, I'm not trying to tell you what to do, but in my experience, when the Boar knows where you are? That's a _bad_ thing."

"Did anyone say it wasn't?" says Leonardo, coolly. His glasses flash as he tilts his head, and he reaches for his water cup without looking away from Donnie. "It's a very bad thing."

"So why —"

Another shared look flickers between the brothers, and they all set down their forks and lean back from the table in unison. It's eerie, that reflected grace; they're so old and tired, with pieces missing, but Donnie _knows_ that movement, and where he would fit within it, if. _If_.

They hold the look, silently, until Raphael shrugs again, one-shouldered. "You want to tell him, go ahead, Fearless," he says. The word jolts through Donnie's spine, another familiar tug, beckoning him to step into his rightful place. It'd be so easy to try.

Leonardo turns all his attention on Mike, who heaves an enormous sigh and pushes his dinner away, half-finished. "You're the boss," he says to Leonardo. "I'm always up for story time."

That rattles a dry laugh out of Leonardo — and then a cough, wet and racking. He waves off Raphael's hand as Donnie watches, and takes another long sip of water before he starts to talk.

"You've heard the old story, I assume," he says, as a preamble, and Donnie nods. Leonardo's voice is deeper than Leo's, a little rougher, a little warmer, and Donnie has to steel himself against the sly promise of comfort in every syllable. This isn't his Leo. He doesn't have the right to take any comfort here.

"Then you know it was missing a key element." Leonardo smiles, a hard, biting smile, with deep furrows framing either side of his mouth. "The story never mentioned how to kill the Boar."

"No," Donnie murmurs. "Lost in translation, I guess."

Leonardo's smile sharpens. There's nothing left of the brother who laughed and hugged Donnie like he'd waited a thousand years for him to walk through the door. There's just a warrior, hard as granite, patient as a glacier — and deadly as a blade in the shadows. The thought that his Leo, who still reads _Space Heroes_ comics and starts fights on message boards about tea, could ever be this cold, makes Donnie's lungs freeze over.

"So." Leonardo measures out his words precisely, still smiling. "Have you had the dream? About the spear?"

Donnie rocks back, his throat working. It's all he can do to nod, the taste of rice and beans going rancid on his tongue. "Yeah," he says, scraping out the words by main force. Only shreds of the dream remain, but he remembers the imperative. "I have, but I don't even know what it looks like, it's just a name. We didn't start looking, there wasn't time before —"

Before the Boar came to the lair, before Slash and Karai, and what was left of Stockman, before April —

_Slam the door. _

"Well," says Leonardo, into the silence. "It's a fairly key part of the story, lost in translation or not. Apparently, the spear — even our story's not clear on this part — somehow has the Boar's mortal blood on it. One hit, and the Boar's killable again. For a few seconds, at least."

Outside, dark snow patters against the glass. Not snow, Donnie thinks, his hands going cold. Somewhere, out there in the dark, something is still burning, and its ashes are falling over the city. "I can see how that'd be useful," he says, holding Leonardo's gaze. "If it was real, and not just part of some myth."

"It's real. The spear. And," Leonardo pauses, clearly relishing the anticipation, so close to the Leo Donnie knows, the little shit who can't help showing off.

"And?" Donnie says, colder with every passing second.

"And, about a year ago, we found it." Leonardo folds his hands on the table. "We have the spear. That's why the Boar hasn't wiped us off the map yet. It knows what we have, and it's _scared_. All we need is to get close enough to use it, and it's game over."

Donnie opens his mouth, closes it, and feels his ears start to ring. Is this hope? Is this _why_ he came all this way? To finally, finally, find an answer waiting for him?

Leonardo smiles again. "It's good you showed up now, wherever you came from," he says, reaching across the table to grip Donnie's shoulder. "We've got a plan, but we need your brain to make it work."


	21. Part Fifteen

As soon as Leo lays eyes on the pit, he knows why the Bull sent a child through the city to mark this decaying ruin: the Bull wants them to finish the fire the Boar started, all those years ago.

The irony isn't lost on Leo. He almost smiles in spite of what's in front of him, because _of course_ he would have to come back here, where the echoes of his pitiful, defiant screams still haunt the corridors. He still has work to do. He has to make sure this place is _ash_.

It won't be difficult. Even soaked by cold spring rain, the building will go up like driftwood when they set it on fire. The teeth will burn, like so many dry leaves, and New York will be safe from this particular nightmare.

One tooth. That was all it took, one tooth buried deep in Casey's side, and four of those _monsters_ had invaded the lair. It doesn't take a genius to know that the rustling, gleaming teeth ringing the pit would be enough to overrun the city: thin green forms racing through the streets, dragging down everyone they could catch, each wound a new, fertile field.

He knows from experience how weak the dogs are. He knows it doesn't matter. They have numbers, they have terror, and they have the Boar, guiding them from the dark. New York wouldn't stand a chance.

_So set the fire and go_. He reaches for the flares in his belt, his hand numb, then pauses as something shifts in the light at the center of the pit. It holds Leo's eyes even though his instincts tell him to set the fire, get his brothers up the stairs, and _run_. They won't move on their own; their eyes are just as fixed as his, drawn inexorably to the almost-imperceptible movements deep within the light.

He tries to give the order — _go, now, don't look back_ — but his mouth falls open and stays that way while a heavy, warm blanket of exhaustion falling over him. They can look a moment longer, can't they? It's like Donnie always says: all information is worth gathering, and what if they miss something by setting the fire too soon? The Boar's had all the advantages. Leo can afford just one look. He's not too tired to do that. And he's not too tired to make out the body at the pit's center, its chest split open and its ribs cracked wide, with teeth pouring out of the hole like wild, overgrown ferns.

Disgust and horror pass through him, blunted by how damn _tired_ he is, and disappear. Leo has seen worse, caused worse, and he knows the Boar could _do_ worse by twitching its littlest finger. The only surprise, from Leo's perspective, is that there's only _one_ body.

_Maybe not so surprising_, Leo thinks. He shivers, and the exhaustion cast over him begins to recede. _The Boar eats._

"Guys," he manages to whisper. "We need to —"

The light dims as it turns, but falls clear and bright on tarnished metal and scales. Against the sea of green and white, the rich magenta stands out like fireworks. The rest of Leo's exhaustion shreds away as what he sees in the pit meshes with a face he'd long forgotten.

"That's —" Raph gives himself a massive shake. He turns his head slowly and stares at Leo with half-awake but furious eyes. "Leo, it's —"

"Fishface," says Leo, exhaustion forgotten, replaced with his own anger. The body twitches as the light revolves, but there's no sense or intelligence in the movement. Nothing remains of Fishface but this: a half-rotted corpse at the bottom of a burned-out building, left as food for other, stronger monsters.

A swift wave of pity startles Leo. Fishface is — was — a bastard, more than happy to play his own vicious games with Leo and his family, even when Shredder didn't explicitly give the orders. Leo will carry the marks of those games for the rest of his life, and so will his brothers. But Fishface had his honor, twisted and unpredictable as it was.

_You should see what happened to the ones who said no_, Slash said.

_I see_, Leo thinks, pity flaring into a new kind of anger. Fishface said no, Stockman said no, but the Boar used them anyways, and probably laughed the whole time.

"Do you guys think he's alive?" Mikey asks. "I mean, I know it looks like — but —"

But the Boar has many powers, and many appetites, and keeping Fishface alive while this garden grew, as punishment for his refusal, is just what Leo would expect.

"No," says Raph. His voice is clear, not quite a shout but without any dreamy exhaustion. He's mad, he's ready to fight, and Leo's lost too much time. "He's _dead_. Even if he's not, we're not gonna leave him like this." He gives Leo a belligerent look, daring Leo to disagree, and rocks back on his heels, satisfied, when Leo nods. "All right, then let's wreck this place."

"No," says Leo, holding up a hand when Raph pulls his sai from their holders.

"Are you _kidding_ me?" Raph snarls, while Mikey gapes at Leo. "Dude, are you seeing this?"

"Yes." The pit is _all_ Leo sees: tiers of glass-sharp teeth, green and gleaming, each one full of cheerful, mindless hate. "What do you think you can do, Raph? Break them all?"

"It's a start." Raph spins his sai. "So? You got a better idea?"

Raph knows better than to push Leo in these moments; he's grown up, he's learned to wait, but the Boar's touch is everywhere, tainting them all, and Leo wouldn't notice it now if Donnie hadn't pointed it out, so tired and resigned. Leo won't forget again, even if Raph and Mikey have.

So he takes a deep breath, and pulls the flares out of his belt. "I've got a better idea," he says, holding them out to Mikey and Raph.

Mikey gets it first. The wide-eyed _what're we gonna do_ look evaporates off his face, and he takes the flare with a grim little nod. He waits while Raph glares at Leo, arms folded over his plastron.

"You think some _flares_ are gonna fix this?" Raph asks. Leo doesn't bother to reply. Time's slipping away from them. Who knows how long they stood there, silent and sleepy, with the lair open to the cold air and half their family injured?

Injured, or gone. He swallows, all too aware of the gaping empty space at his shoulder, and holds Raph's gaze.

A second later, the belligerence fades, and Raph's face hardens, just like Mikey's. He takes the flare without another word, his eyes dark with something far past anger — pity, Leo thinks, and defiance, and something else that he can't place.

"You sure this'll work?" Raph asks.

Leo smiles, a hard sliver of teeth that feels cold as the moonlight up top. "Remember the farmhouse, last fall?" Mikey snorts, and Raph nods. There had been a bonfire, but nothing to light it with — till Donnie brought out a handful of his flares, and then the fire blotted out the stars. "It'll work," Leo says, not letting himself think about how it would be better, more certain, with four instead of three.

Raph nods.

"On three," says Leo. "One, two, _three_." He thumbs the igniter, holds the flare away from his body as the ruby-red sparks pour from the tip, and tosses it into the pit. Mikey and Raph follow him, and the pit ignites with a hollow, dry _fwoom_.

"All _right,_" Mikey hisses. "Smell you later, ghost dogs."

Raph gives Leo an impressed nod while the pit crackles and burns, Fishface's pathetic corpse lost in the flames, but Leo's attention is far away. At the very edge of his hearing, past the flames and his brothers' satisfaction, he hears something roaring, in bewilderment and rage.

"We've got to go," he says, adrenaline making him clumsy as he grabs Mikey and Raph's arms. "Come on — we've got to run."

All the way up the stairs and through the corridors, Leo hears the flames devouring the base from the bottom up, but it's not loud enough to drown out the Boar's voice, not at all.

* * *

Leo keeps running until his lungs burn and his legs threaten to give out under him. Raph's started to gasp for air, and Mikey's slipping a little further behind with every step, so he slows to a walk once they jump to the next rooftop. They're nowhere near the lair, they can't stop moving, but they have to be able to fight.

It's been years since he had to think this way, weighing the merits of speed against stamina. His family hasn't gotten soft — he'd die before letting that happen — but they've gotten complacent. Too many years of easy patrols, without the Kraang or the Foot to keep their instincts and skills honed to a fine razor edge.

They may end up paying for it tonight. Leo strains to hear over the night-noises of the city, but all he catches are sirens, riding the wind.

"Looks like we got someone's attention," Mikey pants, pointing to where a patch of sky glows a bright, hungry red. "Yo, Leo, you think we can take a breather for like, thirty seconds?"

"A break won't hurt," Raph adds. "We're three miles out. No one's gonna find us." He sucks in a huge lungful of air, then lets it out in a burst of coughing.

Leo shakes his head. His brothers are used to long runs; three miles on a normal night would be a vacation, but three miles at breakneck, life-or-death speed? Not even Donnie, who loves running almost as much as he loves Bill Nye, would handle it with grace.

The empty spot at Leo's shoulder gets a little colder.

"We can't stop," he says, as he grabs Mikey's arm — not hard, just enough to pull him along when Mikey groans and tries to sit down. "We have to get home, soon as we can."

"What, you think it's not —" Raph cuts himself off before Leo can slap his free hand over Raph's mouth, then gives Leo a narrow, wary look. "You think it'll hit us twice?" he asks instead.

Leo climbs onto the edge of the roof, scanning the path ahead of him, still listening to the wind. The sirens are quieter now, but the wind is just as sharp. It would carry the roar to him, if the Boar was still voicing its displeasure.

_Maybe it's not roaring because it's already on the move_, he thinks. His back tightens under his shell, and he fights the urge to curl up and hide, away from gods and fires alike. It's not cowardice, it's just instinct. If they're not being hunted now, they will be within hours, and nowhere in the city will be safe.

"I don't think it's a good idea to wait for the storm," he replies, bending his legs. Then he lets go of Mikey and jumps. There's the heart-freezing instant when he thinks he's misjudged the jump, but his feet land on sharp, icy gravel. Mikey and Raph groan, but an instant later their footsteps follow his, and the three of them take the next jump together.

They run in silence, and Leo isn't aware at first that a new certainty is taking shape in his head. No, not new — it's the same bedrock certainty that came to him when they faced the Boar for the first time. He knew then how to get his family out alive — by not looking like prey — and he knows now that the Boar won't attack them tonight, knows it as well as he knows the sound of his brothers' footsteps.

They haven't dealt the Boar a mortal blow, or even crippled it. All they've done is take away a few of its toys. But Leo _knows_ that while the Boar may have screamed at first, it's silent now. In the shadowed space it calls home, the Boar is surprised.

That won't last, but they have time to get ready for the Boar's reprisal. Hours to plan, to hide, and most importantly, to minimize collateral damage.

Leo knows exactly where, and how, his brothers will break. He knows how far to push them, and he knows the difference between a goad and a challenge. And he's the best, except maybe Mikey, at compartmentalizing. Being a leader is so much more than saying _go here, do this, because I say so_. It's being able to draw a line and say _here, and no further_, and then carrying the weight of what comes after.

What he's going to do next may break Raph and Mikey. But it's the last time he'll be able to wield mercy and compassion, even if they can't see it that way.

Minimize damage. Get the innocents out of the way. Leave no one behind who can be a target.

_Do no harm_, April intones, from far back in his memory, _but take no shit_.

He's formed a plan by the time they're a mile out from the lair, and all he sees is Donnie's tired, hopeful face, smiling at him.

Leo hopes that means he's made the right call.

* * *

Usagi knows, as soon as Leo meets his eyes. Not the fullness of Leo's plan, but its vague shape. The samurai opens his mouth, ready to protest — Leo can already hear the words, _Leonardo, you cannot do this alone, I will not let you _— but Casey jumps in front of him, favoring his side and talking at light-speed.

"Dudes, you're not gonna believe this — local news is going _crazy_. There's some fire at the old Foot headquarters, they got like three fire companies on it and it just keeps _burning_ — I'm gonna say that was you guys, and screw you for not lettin' me come along — and now Channel Six is sayin' there's been some kinda animal attack two blocks away from Murakami's — some homeless guys say they got attacked by wolves that just like, ran off out of nowhere. You think?"

Leo blinks, trying to process Casey's news, and sees Mikey and Raph staring at Casey blankly to either side. "We think what, Casey?" he asks, pathetically grateful for the delay.

"Use your words," mutters Raph, stomping down the stairs to pull up Casey's shirt and prod at his side.

Casey hisses and shoves Raph away, wincing the whole time. "You think they're connected? I mean, how many wolves you think are runnin' around New York? And the fire, you guys were just _there_. What'd you do?"

Splinter comes out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a cloth, and Angel peers up at Leo from her place on the couch. Raph and Mikey stand at ease, trying to hide how proud they are at the destruction they wreaked. It twists Leo's heart — they should be proud, they did a good thing and now he's going to punish them for it — but he takes a slow, deep breath, and stares back at Usagi.

"Mikey," he asks. "Donnie and April didn't take the power cell back to Kurtzman, did they?"

Usagi's blink is his only tell.

Mikey coughs, shuffles his feet before he answers. "Uh, no. They still had…sciency stuff to do. It's still here. Why do you —"

"Usagi," Leo says, before he can lose his nerve completely. "I need your device. The one that opens a portal from your end."

"Leo, what're you —" The pin drops for Raph as Casey shouts "You're not leavin' me behind this time!" and Angel stares wide-eyed at them all from the couch. Splinter frowns at Leo, not understanding, and Leo feels a vicious, petty urge to shout _why do I have to explain this to you?_ in his direction. Leo is the leader, he took this mantle willingly, but Splinter is still their father. Why can't he take this from Leo, just once?

"Leonardo," says Usagi. "I will not let you do this."

There's a heartbeat of silence, broken only when Mikey snarls, betrayed, and Raph whirls on Leo, fists up.

"It's what has to happen," Leo says, over the roar of everyone shouting at him. One way or another, he's stuck finishing what the Boar started, whether it's a fire or breaking his brothers. "We set the fire. The Boar will come for us."

"Then let's be ready!" Casey shouts, his wound forgotten. "One stand, with all of us? And the Kraang tech — I can pull it together, and we got bombs, we can do this!"

Usagi stares at Leo, his face a frozen, tragic mask.

"Leonardo," says Splinter. "Are you sure of this path?"

"We're getting you all out of the way," Leo says. Every word feels like a stone, falling out of his mouth to rest on his plastron. Even breathing is getting harder. "You're hurt —"

"Eat shit, Leo," snaps Casey, slapping Raph's hand away again. "Seriously, _eat shit_."

"— none of you can fight, but you can get out." _You can live_, is the unspoken, central truth.

The most treacherous part of Leo's soul hopes for a split second that Mikey and Raph can be convinced to go, too. They won't, they'll never leave him, and the unending weight of his love for them knocks what little breath Leo has left straight out of his lungs. He's stuck with them, until the end.

Somewhere between setting the fire and turning back to see the flames, Leo realized that this would be the final battle. Donnie is gone, April is gone, and there's no one left who can stop the Boar. Leo's not proud enough to think that they'll even slow down its relentless, starving march across their world. But they might hamstring it, and give Donnie a fighting chance when he comes back.

_It's all for Donnie_, Leo says, but that's not quite the whole truth. It's for Donnie, and it's for the family clustered in front of him, bruised and bleeding. The Boar has powers Leo can't comprehend, and it's malicious beyond all telling. This act of love and protection may not be enough. The odds are against him and his brothers doing any good. The odds always have been.

He'll take them.

Leo holds out his hand to Usagi, willing him to understand, as the empty air behind him gets colder, and colder.

_Where are you, Donnie_? he thinks, as Usagi's shoulders slump, and the samurai digs in his robe for the thin, circular disc. He drops it into Leo's waiting palm, where it gleams in the light from the muted TV. It's featherlight. Leo could crush it by clenching his fist — but not yet.

He looks back at Usagi, at the near-pleading look in his friend's eyes, and commits it to memory. Casey's breathing comes hard and fast nearby, and Raph murmurs something — but Leo doesn't look. And he doesn't look when Mikey moves to Splinter's side, and squeezes their father's arms before sitting down with his arm around Angel's shoulders. _It'll be all right_, Leo hears him whisper. Angel nods, her eyes fixed far away.

The controller only works one way. The other half, Leo's half, is in the lab.

"Once you're —" His voice breaks, but he pushes on, his heart beating slow and heavy against his ribs. "Once you're through," he says, "we'll blow the portal."

_And then, we fight._

* * *

**_Elsewhen._**

Donnie half-tumbles off the bed when he jolts awake, tangled hopelessly in his blanket. What woke him is a total mystery; he didn't heard any loud noises, and what little furniture fills the room around him is still in order. He presses his hands to the side of his head, trying to calm his breathing and the scattered beat of his heart, and sees a white light shear away into the night, on the far end of Manhattan.

_A comet?_ He kicks free of the blanket and moves silently to his window. _But the cloud cover's too heavy to see anything. Maybe a satellite falling, or —_

The light floods his room, bleached white and soundless. Donnie flinches away from his window, one arm raised to shield his eyes. At least the mystery of what woke him is solved; now he just wants to know what the light belongs to. Blinking away the afterimages, he leans close enough to bump his nose against the dirty glass. He belatedly remembers to shield his eyes, and manages to look away before the light comes around again. This time, he counts thirty-one seconds before the light completes its circuit and fills his room again.

Definitely not a comet or a satellite. Donnie unwinds a few feet of linen from his leg wraps, and uses the wadded material to scrub a clean spot in the ash and dirt coating his window. Maybe it's in one of the skyscrapers — but the light is coming from the north, and there are no skyscrapers for the light to roost in out there.

Something new, then.

Donnie stops scrubbing and back away. If the light is coming from the north, then it's close to the lair. The back of his neck prickles, and the sensation spreads over his shoulder and under his shell. His hands lock together around the linen, kneading and wringing.

Whatever the light is, wherever it's coming from, it's a mystery he'll investigate in what passes for daylight here. He thinks of the grey, flimsy sky, pouring ashes down on New York, and tries not to shudder. The prickling on his neck doesn't go away, even after he turns back to his bed.

Leonardo refused to elaborate on his plan after they finished eating. _You need to rest_, Donnie was told, when he asked to see the spear, and then Mike led him to this room, this bed, and gave him a weary little smile.

_It's not much, but it's home, _Mike said with a shrug. _Need anything, just holler. Bathroom's two doors down._

Then, he tossed Donnie a handful of paper towels — _for when nature calls_ — and shut the door. _Without_ locking it, as Donnie discovered as Mike's footsteps faded away. They even left him his bo. It's almost as if they trust him.

Not that Donnie would have much of a chance against an entire base filled with soldiers, especially not ones led by these echoes of his brothers. They have numbers, they have decades of experience —

_And they're tired_, he thinks, sinking down on the bed as the light passes through his room again. _Numbers and experience will only get you so far. When the fight's kicked out of you, then you've lost the war. _

Donnie rubs his face and pulls his legs up onto the bed. He can cover his face with the threadbare pillow and hope that shuts out enough of the light to let him sleep. With a grim little smile, he reaches for the blanket, then freezes as someone knocks on his door.

"You're awake," whispers the red-headed woman. "Can I come in?"

Donnie flicks a glance at his bo — within reach, just where he left it — and sits up.

"Sure," he says.

A ribbon of grey-yellow light unspools into his room as the woman steps inside. Her hair hangs loose past her shoulders. It doesn't soften her eyes or the grim set of her mouth, but it makes her look a little younger — closer, Donnie thinks, to her actual age.

"Figured you'd have questions," she says, nodding at the window. She hovers at the door, hands at her hips, her expression carefully blank. "Hit me."

Donnie's had too much practice to give himself away by looking at his bo for reassurance, but he doesn't bother to hide how he checks her for weapons. A gun, a baton, maybe a knife — it's possible she'll want to keep things interesting for him. She raises her eyebrows, then lifts her hands, palm out, and turns. "See? Not a threat." Her voice is as empty as her face, but Donnie knows who trained her, and he almost laughs.

"Really," he says, touching the raised lump on the side of his head. "You're here so I can play Twenty Questions? How thoughtful."

The woman's eyes narrow, and she tenses, but Donnie waits her out. It's just a knee-jerk reaction, and he'll be ready if she attacks this time. His readiness isn't necessary; she deflates as quickly as she tensed, and gives him a wry smile that unexpectedly, viciously tugs at his heart.

"I'm not here to apologize," she says. "My unc — the others might be glad you're here, but there's no way it's for real." Her mouth tightens, but she goes on with barely a pause. "If you're a trick, you're the best we've seen. And I don't blame them for wanting to believe. So, to make it easier on them — and because I'm in enough trouble for, you know —" she gestures at her head, but most of the movement is lost in another flash of light. "I decided to come and play nice."

"Again: _really_." This time, the woman's gaze is hot as molten iron, but Donnie doesn't care. She's furious with him, or at least the other Donnie, the one who wore this same face before he vanished, and she hates him, and still, he doesn't care. Her anger is the answer to her mystery: only family can cut you so deeply you never stop bleeding.

"Oh, go to hell," she snarls, spinning on her heel and heading out the door. "Whatever you are, just _go to hell_. But don't take my family with you."

"Wait!" Donnie calls. His one conduit for information — he can't let her walk out the door, no matter how hostile she is. He hopes no one is listening in on this conversation, but he knows better than to put much faith in the dorm walls. The woman stops with only her heel still visible, then turns back to face him. "What's the light?" he asks.

The woman tucks her hair behind her ears, and the curl of her fingers is so familiar that Donnie shuts his eyes, and slams the mental door one last time. The little gesture has _April_ threaded through it, and he remembers, he _knows_, what April's hair feels like under his own fingers.

_Not the time or place_, he tells himself.

After a long, silent moment, during which the light flashes twice more, the woman sighs. "It'll be easier to show you," she says. "We've got a good view up on the roof."

The light floods the room again, covering his flinch. It's been weeks since he felt April's fingers brush his own, or heard the flutter of black silk — holding her, _having_ her, at his sides and in his arms, pushed back the horror — but he can't escape the memories now. April is gone and he sees her fall, again, and again, and again.

"I'm not going to push you off, if that's what you're worried about," says the woman. The light's faded, and Donnie has enough control back to meet her grim smile with one of his own, one that almost feels natural. "Take your bo. Come on."

She holds the door for him while he rises and slides his bo into its holder, but pauses when he clears his throat.

"What's your name?" he asks.

Her shoulders shake, for just an instant. She doesn't face him as she answers, and her voice is perfectly flat again.

"I'm Alice," she says. "Let's go. It's a long climb."

* * *

"So," Donnie says, through his panting. "You weren't lying about the climb." It's one thing to sprint in a straight line over a few rooftops, and quite another to haul body, bo, and shell up a few dozen flights of stairs at top speed. _I can never tell Leo about this_, he thinks, before he can catch himself, and inhales a sharp lungful of icy air to distract himself from the memory of Leo's face.

Alice's mouth quirks in a dry smile. She's out of breath too, and shivering, even though they're sheltered from the worst of the wind by a maintenance shed. "Leonardo used to make me run it twice a day," she says, halting over her words, picking at the ends of her hair. "You know, build up my stamina. Whenever I complained, he'd just give me this _look_." She laughs, tired and humorless, and ties her hair back with an elastic.

"Sounds like Leo," Donnie replies without thinking. "I mean…"

"You don't have to tiptoe around me," Alice says, her voice full of high scorn. "I can take it. You've got some big, happy family backstory, you'll make us realize what we've lost, and then we'll all come back together for one last shot at beating the Boar."

The light floods across the roof. When he glances in her direction, the white light from the north floods her face, leaves her features stark as a skull. Donnie crushes the urge to back into the shadows behind him. Hiding won't do any good, but there's something about the light that makes his stomach go sour.

"I mean, it's not a bad idea," Alice goes on. "It's about the only trick the Boar hasn't pulled. Got a great sense of humor. Like with — look! Quick, before the light comes back, down there!"

Donnie follows the line of her arm past the edge of the roof, down to what used to be April and Casey's high school, to Murakami's shop — and then his stomach isn't just sour, but curdled, acid rising high and thick in his chest.

His first thought is _Fireflies? In winter?_, but then the truth cracks through his head, and he jerks his head at Alice, who keeps pointing, her hand shaking.

"Are those _cars_?" he asks. "And _streetlights_?"

"Yeah," Alice says heavily, and crosses her arms over her chest. "That part of the city still has power. Dad — he could never figure out how. Not like it mattered."

She gives him a sidelong look, ready to pounce on his reaction to the truth, but what's there to say? It hasn't been a mystery for hours. Donnie stares back, trying to hide his pity, trying not to apologize — it's instinct now, to take on all the broken things. There's no apology that can bridge this chasm, no matter how badly he wants to try. After a moment, Alice turns back to the city, and the narrow, darting streaks of light.

"The lights and the cars are real, as far as we can tell. Kind of makes sense — why waste energy on illusions if you've already got the props, right?" Donnie nods, horrified at how part of him is fascinated, ticking away everything Alice says in case it might be useful later. Alice rubs her nose, then scuffs her feet in the gravel. "Anyways. The whole thing's a fake. You know how angler fish have the lights to draw in their prey?"

Donnie nods again, and Alice gives him a cold, nasty smile.

"Same principle. People see lights and cars, and they think, _it's safe and warm out there, let's go, why stay here_?" Her smile trembles, then disappears completely. "We still lose people."

Donnie waits for the light to pass again before he opens his mouth. "What happens when they get there?"

"Oh, please, don't act like you don't know." Alice rolls her eyes. "They're dead. Who cares how?"

"I do," Donnie says. "All —"

"All information is worth having. Right."

"It's true."

Alice laughs, teeth bared. She's so bitterly tired, her bones crumbled to dust by anger. It was easier, Donnie thinks, when she only wanted to kill him. He doesn't know what to say to her, what to ask.

He could ask, _What happened to April_? But he already knows, doesn't he?

"You don't want the details. Or maybe you do," Alice says, her voice rising. "How should I know? It's not like I _know_ you. God, I barely know what's left of my family."

It takes every molecule of his self-control, but Donnie keeps his mouth shut. Now that Alice has started, she can't seem to stop, words exploding out of her at a near-yell that the wind carries away, over the city.

"You want to know? The ground opens up under them, just like quicksand. Sometimes it leaves their faces, or just their mouths — that's always fun, because then they can scream until —" Her hand clutches at the collar of her jacket, white-knuckle tight. "Once, I saw a guy run down past the old movie theater, and we thought — we thought he was going to get sucked under, but he didn't. He kept running, and then he just…something tore him apart, like he went through a meat grinder." Alice covers her mouth, breathing hard through her fingers. "She told me not to look," she whispers. "She always told me not to look, but she never tried to stop me. I don't…"

The light comes, again and again, and Alice keeps shaking. Donnie stays where he is, ready to listen, and doesn't move a step closer. He has no right to help.

But oh, he just wants to fix this, as much as he can, because the Donnie she needs isn't here to do his job. Their job.

_Where are you_? Donnie stares out at the city. _What happened to you, and why did you leave? They needed you _here_, not out there looking._

"Sorry," says Alice abruptly. "I shouldn't have…oh, shit." She wipes her eyes. "I hate crying," she adds. "Waste of time."

"Waste of water," Donnie jokes, wincing. He has no right, _no right at all_.

But Alice laughs into her hand, and almost smiles at him. "Nice," she says. "Really nice."

"I have my moments." Donnie shrugs. He feels lighter than he has in hours, even with the cold biting into his skin and the eerie lights flickering below him, but he doesn't let himself push the moment. "So, the big light," he prompts, once Alice has her arms crossed over her chest, and is glaring down at the city again "What is it?"

"That," Alice says, "is the Boar's friendly way of letting us know it's watching. No one's gotten close enough to get a good look at it, but it's like…a lighthouse, I guess."

"The Eye of Sauron," Donnie murmurs. He startles when Alice snorts.

"Yeah, kind of." She pushes a piece of hair out of her face. "You won't be able to see it during the day. It mostly comes at night."

Donnie waits a beat, long enough for Alice to glance his way, then clears his throat. "Mostly," he adds, and gets another snort.

"Aren't we cute?" Alice asks the rooftop. "If this were a movie, it'd be all hugs and laughing over how we get a second chance." Her mouth curls in a snarl, and she turns back to the staircase. "This isn't a movie. You can't just step in —"

"Alice." Donnie catches her arm as she passes him, but he's not ready for the jolt when he says her name and that almost-life brushes against his own. He doesn't even have a right to talk to her. "I'm not a trick," he says, holding on when she tries to pull away, letting go when she hisses through her teeth. "And I'm not trying to take anyone's place, but…"

"But what?" she asks, glaring at him with eyes hard and dark. "You're here to fix us, right? One last stand, carrying the spear high?" She yanks the door to the stairwell open. "Did Leonardo tell you what his plan was?" When Donnie stays silent, she shakes her head, laughing, back to the brittle, jagged-edged woman from when he first arrived. "Yeah, of course he didn't. Come on. One more stop on the tour."

* * *

Alice leads him through a repair bay that spans the entire base of the building. Her flashlight illuminates thin slivers at a time, but what Donnie sees in the brief flashes makes his fingers itch: bales of copper wire and fiber optic cables, canisters of frozen nitrogen, something that might be the turret of a tank.

_Supplies for an army_, he thinks. Why haven't they used them?

"Impressed?" Alice whispers. She moves easily through the narrow spaces between work tables and piles of materials.

"My lab's in a sewer," he whispers back. "And I built a battle truck that shoots manhole covers. Yeah, I'm impressed."

Alice's steps hitch. "The Shellraiser, right?" she says, speeding up again. "I think — I heard about that." Before Donnie can reply, she sweeps her flashlight in a wide arc in front of her. "It's gone now. Went up when they burned the lair."

"They burned it?" Donnie asks, too shocked to stop himself. _My lab_, he thinks, the two worlds blurring in his head. _Why would you burn my lab_?

"Leonardo's policy," Alice says. She looks over her shoulder, but in the dark it's impossible to make out her expression. "If we can't carry it, we burn it. Nothing gets left behind for the Boar. We'll burn this place too, if we decide to leave." She sighs, and rubs the back of her neck. "Not that we will."

The wall appears in front of them, dirty, smoke- and acid-stained bricks swimming out of the darkness. Alice moves a little to her left, leaning against the hood of a cannibalized Jeep, and flips open the cover of a keypad lock.

"You've left before?" Donnie watches her hide the keypad with one hand while she punches in a long string of numbers with her thumb. He ignores the part of his brain that memorizes the code — it'll be there later, if he needs it.

"Yeah." Alice waits until the keypad glows red, then presses her hand flat against part of the wall. Something rumbles behind the bricks, and the wistful, barely-audible sound of decompression fills the silence before she speaks again. "We used to go south, for the winters. It gets so cold now. No sunlight. You know. It's actually May right now, if you can believe it." She flicks the flashlight up to the ceiling, twirling it in lazy circles, seemingly unaware of Donnie's quick jolt. Two months, gone. "But we always came back."

"Why?"

She shrugs. "Leonardo. Why else?"

"That's not really an answer," Donnie tells her, feeling his patience fray. "If you don't want me asking, just say so. I can talk to Leonardo in the morning."

Alice snorts. "Yeah, good luck with that. He's a cagey pr —" She coughs, then slides off the hood when a piece of the wall peels away, leaving a bright, too-clean wedge of light spilling into the repair bay. "You want to know why we kept coming back? Why we don't leave anymore?" She steps aside to let Donnie slip past her, into the white, pristine room behind the wall. "Because Leonardo wants to be here if my dad comes home."

The room is nearly empty. Donnie's footsteps echo flat and hollow on the tiles. He hadn't spared a thought for what the room held, too preoccupied with Alice's thin, spiteful trickle of information, and now, he finds he's underwhelmed. There's just a long wooden box, sitting in the middle of the floor.

"Behold," Alice says. "Leonardo's great plan. It's not locked." She makes an indistinct noise that could be a laugh or snarl. "Like anyone would open it except…"

"Except him," Donnie murmurs, sinking to his knees in front of the box, as Alice says, "my dad."

The wood smells like mold and dirt, and sends up a faint cloud of dust when he lifts the lid away. The contents rattle a little, then go still.

"You haven't asked how she died," says Alice.

No, he hasn't, even as part of him screamed, silently, to know. But really, why does he need to know _how_, when the only thing that matters is that she's gone?

It doesn't matter what world he's in. He's never going to be able to save her.

"I'm sorry," he says. He knows it's the last thing Alice needs to hear from him. From the other Donnie, but not from him. He has no right. None at all.

"The Shredder and the Boar, they found a Kraang cache," Alice says. "There's always a new rock bottom, right? So Mom, she — she and Grandpa went in alone. Minimal risk, minimal collateral damage." She waits, silent until the bones in Donnie's chest have twisted and he can't breathe to tell her to stop, because he doesn't want to know how badly things went wrong and how much was lost, and then she sighs, a quiet, stripped-bare sound. "Shredder made an example out of them. And we could only watch while Karai —"

This time, when Alice's voice drops away, she doesn't speak again. Donnie opens his eyes, and stares at the dirty, brittle spear in front of him, the metal tip dulled and stained. It weighs almost nothing when he lifts it, but it thrums faintly, and warms at his touch.

There's power in this weapon. It slept, but now it's waking, ready for its final bloody work.

"It's for real?" Alice whispers. Donnie tears his eyes away from the spear long enough to meet her wide-eyed gaze, her face caught between doubt and a fragile, reluctant hope. "You feel something? No one else did."

"Yeah." Donnie turns back to the spear, feeling the thrum building in the wood. "I feel — it's like it's awake."

"God." Alice shifts back toward the door. "It's a trick — it's —" Donnie looks again, in time to see her spin away, hair flaring around her like a corona, and then she darts off into the black repair bay, her footsteps fading into silence.

Donnie inhales slowly, and stands. The spear gets heavier every moment he holds it, swelling with power, with purpose, and yes, _yes_, this is a real weapon, this is a god-killer. Donnie sees it so clearly, the dulled head of the spear growing sharp again, the rust and stains melting away. All it needed was a Champion.

A lifetime of doubt can't be shaken off in a second. But Donnie hefts the spear, spins it slowly, and thinks, _maybe_.

Movement flickers at the edge of Donnie's awareness. Jarred out of his daydream — it's almost _alive_, the spear, warm and thrumming like a song — Donnie turns to find Leonardo filling the doorway, his black coat blending into the darkness behind him.

"I never thought…" Leonardo coughs, shaking his head. "We had almost stopped hoping, you know. But now…" He smiles, that sweet, aching smile again, and for a moment, he's the Leo Donnie knows, the brother Donnie loves. The brother Donnie would die for.

"Thank you," Leonardo says, blank eyes fixed on the spear.

Donnie grips the spear tighter, and realizes a moment later he's smiling back.


	22. Part Sixteen

**_March 31st. _**

The last thing anyone's going to accuse Raph of is being _nice_, and he's never felt bad about it till now. He grabs Casey's shoulder again — third time's a charm, right? — and tries to pull him back down the stairs, but Casey's a quick little shit when he wants to be and he's in Leo's face before Raph can stop him.

"You're not benchin' me!" Casey yells. He jabs a finger at Leo's face, spitting every word. "You've done some dumbass things before, but this really takes it."

Leo goes blank, which is usually enough of a warning, even for Raph, but Casey keeps yelling.

"— so you can take this big plan of yours and shove it up your green ass!"

"This isn't open for debate." Leo steers around Casey without a second look. "Raph, Mikey, with me. We've got work to do in the lab."

"Don't walk away!" Casey shouts, as Usagi calls after Leo, his voice taut. "Raph, back me up!"

This must be that classic no-win scenario Donnie's always talking about. Raph shuts down that line of thought fast as he can, and rubs his face. He's got no idea what to say to get Casey on board, but he tries. For all of two seconds he tries, while Casey watches him, eyes hot and furious, and then Casey throws up his hands and stalks away.

"It's _bullshit_," he says as he goes.

Raph spins after him — Leo can deal without him for five minutes, because this is the last chance he's got to try and fix this — and catches Usagi's look on the way. Usagi's better at keeping his crap locked down than anyone except Leo, but he can't hide the way he just got gut-punched.

Raph doesn't blame him. The guy hauled his furry ass all the way to their universe to help out, and now he's benched over a couple burns. It's got to suck, even if Usagi'll never say so.

It's not just the burns. Raph's not nice, and Raph's no genius, but he knows all about collateral damage. The Boar's going to make its payback as personal as possible.

_When'd you figure that out?_ He tosses what he hopes is an apologetic look over his shoulder at Usagi as he follows Casey. _Was it before or after the alley full of dead bodies_?

Like it matters.

Usagi's smart. He doesn't like Leo's plan, but liking it isn't as important as him falling in line. Raph doesn't need to worry about him, or Splinter, who looks like a bomb just went off two feet from his head, or Angel, who's clearly having the worst and weirdest day of her life.

Which is a good thing, because the door to his room just slammed _and_ locked.

"Raph!" Mikey yells from the door of the lab. "C'mon!"

"In a minute!" A sour wave of guilt hits him as he jogs past Splinter without saying a word, but it passes quick. Maybe that makes him an asshole, but he's only got a few minutes left. Patching things up with Casey take priority. Besides, Mikey's got the whole _nice_ thing on lockdown, when he wants to. He can explain it to Splinter.

The lock on his door's been broken for two years now. It makes a lot of noise and if you're not trying too hard, it _feels_ locked, but a hard twist and shove are all it takes to open the door. Casey doesn't look up when Raph walks in, just keeps sitting on the bed with his head in his hands.

"Come on, My Chemical Romance." Raph knows he's landed about two states away from sounding normal, but Casey snorts and rolls his head in Raph's direction. "You know why Leo's doing this. Don't be a dick about it."

"You'd be a dick if it were you," Casey shoots back, but he's too tired to give it much heat.

It's easy sometimes for Raph to forget that Casey's just human, not actually as mystical and badass as he always says he is. Most the time, Casey's up half a second after he gets knocked down, yelling about how metal it was and how he's _so pumped_. Tonight he tried, but he spent weeks on the bench before having those freak dogs chew their way out of him, and that's not counting all the chewing they did the first go-around in April's apartment.

_Feels like a thousand years ago_. Raph kicks the door shut on Mikey's voice, and sinks down on the bed next to Casey. It's not like he'd be any help in the lab unless he's on clean-up, and that can wait.

"Talk to Leo," Casey says, rubbing his side. "Yeah, it's bad, but you know me. Give it a day, two days. I'll be good to go."

Leo doesn't have the juice for a real argument right now. It'd be as simple as _Hey, Leo, you know Casey's basically a mutant too, right? I mean, how else do you explain his face? We're gonna need the firepower. Let him stay. _

He's not nice and he's never going to be, but Raph's never going to be enough of a selfish asshole to ask Casey to die with him.

"It's gonna be bad, Case," he says. Casey's sigh shakes the whole bed. "Don't fight Leo on this one, okay?"

Casey snorts another laugh that isn't really a laugh at all. "We've had bad before," he says. "Real bad. We didn't split up. What's your big rule? _No turtle left behind_? Doesn't this count?"

Any other night, with anyone else, Raph would serve up a big helping of tough love and tell them to deal with it, but the way Leo looked when he turned back to the fire - there's no coming back from this. He's got to make these last few minutes count.

"Not this time," he says, staring at his feet and Casey's. "Just…do it, okay?" He swallows, shuts his eyes for a moment, and wishes he'd known before they got to the old Foot HQ the night was going to end like this. Maybe he'd have been able to figure out what to say. "I don't want…"

Casey leans into him and sighs.

Raph leans back, and finds his voice again. "Don't be a dick about this," he says, stepping on Casey's foot, "and maybe I'll save some of those dogs for you." He grins when Casey laughs, really laughs, and leans into him harder.

"Deal, babe," Casey says, shoving Raph and kicking him in the leg.

"Don't call me babe," Raph tells him, on reflex, and leans his forehead against Casey's.

Leo looks up when Raph and Casey walk into the lab, face expressionless till Raph gives him a little nod. Then Leo straightens and shuts the notebook in front of him. "We lucked out," he says. "Donnie wrote his notes in English, for once, and the power cell's not damaged. We're ready to go."

Raph's eyes slide toward the portal. He bumps Casey's shoulder, but Casey doesn't respond right away. He's staring at the portal too, eyes a little glassy and his mouth set in a hard line.

Leo gives them another blank glance, then turns away to talk to Usagi and Splinter. Mikey's whispering to Angel on the other side of the lair, one arm around her shoulders while she chews on the cuff of her hoodie. She's smiling, but she's got that same glassy look as Casey.

_Collateral damage, _Raph thinks.

"This is still bullshit," Casey mutters. He scuffs his feet along the dirty floor. "Smells like shit in here, too."

Right. They haven't cleaned up what's left of Stockman. Before they leave, Raph'll take care of that. Stockman was useless, and an idiot, and a bad guy, but he deserved better, same as Fishface. He deserves to be laid to rest, at least.

He'll think about that later.

"Casey." He's got to say something. It's now or never, and his heart keeps pounding but his brain just won't work, it won't give him the words. "I just want to…"

"You said you'd save me some," Casey interrupts, holding his side again. "Don't forget, or I'm gonna be pissed. I'm gonna beat the sparkly green shit out of them. Payback for using me for a chewtoy."

Raph nods, holds Casey's eyes. It's good, being this defiant. Raph will go fight with his brothers, and when it's done, Casey and everyone else will come home. And Raph can bust Donnie's shell for leaving them to do all the hard work, and April will —

The thought dies before he can finish it, and then there's just Casey, watching him with the saddest, dumbest smile Raph's ever seen.

"It's time," Leo says.

Casey's shoulders slump. "Just _remember_," he whispers to Raph, as Mikey punches in the activation code. The portal's roar drowns out anything Raph wants to say, so he settles for grabbing Casey's shoulder one last time.

He expects Mikey to get a little teary, at least, but everyone looks as numb as he feels. Angel doesn't even blink while she gives him the world's most awkward hug, but Raph can ignore how crappy it feels to ruin her life just a little bit more. What he can't handle is Usagi's death grip on Leo's hand, and how gentle Leo is as he peels Usagi's fingers away.

Then there's Splinter, who's never been the huggy type, even when Raph and his brothers were little. The end of the world doesn't change that. They all get a warm hand on their shoulders, and Splinter tries to say something big and inspiring, but then he just defaults to "Good hunting, my sons."

Raph nearly says Splinter's got it the wrong way around, because they're not doing any hunting. But what'd be the point? He can try to be nice, now that it's all ending.

He gives Splinter a smile he hopes is all brave and steady, but it doesn't fit his face, and Splinter closes his eyes.

"Be safe," Splinter whispers, and now it's Raph's turn to look away.

_Sure, totally._ Raph thinks, watching Casey head toward the portal. At the last minute, Casey turns around, and Raph gets to watch the cold light close around him.

Quick goodbyes are supposed to be clean. Like surgery. So why does every mouthful of air have to feel like he's breathing through gravel?

Mikey shuts the portal down, blinking fast, and then runs his hand over his face. There's a beat of silence, the only sound something beeping deep in the lab, and then Leo opens his mouth.

"Tear it down," he says, to Raph and Mikey. "Grab the power cell first, then pull it to pieces."

"Leo," Mikey says, eyes wide. "Do we —"

"We're taking no chances," Leo replies. "Nothing the Boar can use."

"What about Donnie's notes?" Raph asks, dragging the words through a cold throat. It's not like the Boar needs portals, so what's the point of wrecking all Donnie's hard work? Can't they just pretend for thirty seconds they're not already dead?

It's better to be sure. Plan for the worst, expect the worst: the Hamato family motto.

Leo's throat bobs as he swallows. "Burn them," he says. "Burn it all. We move in five minutes."

* * *

The warhound to Karai's left lifts its head and growls, low enough to be camouflaged by the light breeze. Someone behind her sobs, and a few feet away, Slash starts out of his doze.

"They're on the move," he mutters, jerking his massive head to the south.

Karai watches three half-shadows dart away across a rooftop. From this distance, all she can make out are vague shapes, but she knows Leo is the one who turns before they slip out of sight. A flash of milk-white eyes, and then he's gone, vanished into the wide hunting ground of the city.

He's as pathetically easy to track as he was ten years ago, back when she had place, and respect, and _power_. But she's under Slash's command, and she can't move without his permission.

_I preferred being eaten_, she thinks, still staring after Leo. Every bite mark on her skin is a fiery crescent, but she'll take the pain and savor it, if it means being free of the freak's authority.

The Boar's creative in its way, she muses grimly.

"What d'you say?" Slash scratches his neck, then rattles the door of the cage just to hear the people inside scream. The warhounds swarm against his legs, panting and grinning. "Let 'em run for a while, then get 'em when they're tired? Or just take 'em down now?"

Slash will do the opposite of whatever she says, just to make sure she doesn't forget who's in charge.

Karai grits her teeth against the urge to tell him to go fuck himself; making him shut up for a few seconds isn't worth whatever petty humiliation the Boar would come up with next.

It's not like her input will make Leo and his brothers any less dead.

"No opinion?" Slash hunches down so he can shove his face close to hers. "Aw, come on, princess, you still got a tongue in there, _use _it. Never know when it might be your last chance."

His breath is a hot, charnel reek, and there's a long, red-tinged moment where all Karai can think about is _why_ his breath smells like that — but a lifetime of discipline reasserts itself, and she blinks the red fog away to focus past Slash, toward Leo as he runs for his life.

Slash grunts, clearly annoyed at not getting a reaction, and lumbers back to his feet. In the quiet inside her skull, Karai gives herself a second to enjoy thwarting him. Petty victories are all she has left, but there's something to be said for enjoying the little things.

_I've dealt with worse than a bully with bad breath_.

"Nah, we'll let 'em run," Slash says reasonably, like Karai actually made a case. "They'll get tired, and then they'll get careless. Then we hit 'em with our little surprise, and while they're freaking out, that…"

He pauses, head thrown back. Karai doesn't miss how he glances at her from the corner of his eye, gauging her reaction, and so she doesn't give him one. She keeps her hands still on her thighs, and faces forward.

"That," Slash finishes, "is when we make the offer."

Karai snaps her head around to face Slash, realizing what she's doing a nanosecond too late to stop. Slash stares down at her, not smiling now, but radiating enough smug cheer to light up half the city. _You didn't know? _his expression says. _Poor little Karai, out of the loop. _

She inhales slowly, smelling dirt and old blood and a hint of rain. "Which one?" she asks, because she's already given herself away, and she might as well get what she can from Slash while he's distracted by pride. "Who gets the offer?"

"Now that the _Champion's_ not here?" Slash lets out a dark, rough chuckle. "You worried it's gonna be your little boyfriend?"

All the things Slash could have said to hurt her, and he picked that one. Even Stockman could have cut deeper. Karai shrugs, not letting the pain show on her face when her bad shoulder screams, and lets herself enjoy another flash of satisfaction when Slash's malicious cheer dims. "I'm not worried," she says. The breeze sharpens, and drives a few drops of freezing rain over the roof. Karai holds out her hand, listening for Slash to shuffle closer, waiting for him to ask _why_.

_You lack subtlety_, she thinks at him as she rubs her thumb and forefinger together. _You can't use it, so you don't see it._

"Yeah?" Slash says. "Wanna share why with the class, princess?"

_Not a princess, asshole_. Karai steels herself not to show her hot burst of anger. _A general. That's what I was_.

That's not quite right; she hadn't been a general yet, but she had been —

_A queen, _Leo called her, a lovesick little puppy.

A brittle spasm twists beneath her breastbone. Stupid, honorable Leo, with all his dreams of _saving_ her and loving her, and he never understood how she could love power for its own sake. He never knew how it felt to stand with his foot on someone else's neck, just because he _could_.

And now he's running, his life measured in hours.

The spasm clenches again, fiercer this time. For all that Leo never understood _her_, he understands honor, and so does Karai. Honor is what made her warn him, back when running might have done some good.

And honor might make him say _yes_, for the chance to buy his brothers a little more time. It won't work, but Leo will cling to the thinnest hope — and all his intricate layers of shame and righteousness and loyalty will be nothing more than the Boar's next meal. One more truth Karai knows as well as her own skin. What's left of it.

No, it can't be Leo. It has to be someone who can say _no_ when the world calls for their help. Someone...immediate.

She's been out of the game for too long; her mind's too slow to make the connections that used to come so easily. Seven years ago, she could have torn the Foot Clan apart from the inside with nothing more than a well-placed cough and three words to the right person.

Times change. The kingdom that should have been hers burned twice, and she's little better than a slave.

But she's been paying attention all these years, and sometimes — _sometimes — _winning can be just as much of a weakness as caring. If you take it for granted, you forget how to adapt.

And once that happens, even a slave can rise again.

She coughs, and waits till Slash glances down at her.

"Ask Raph instead," Karai says.

Slash's eyes glitter. "Yeah," he says. "_Yeah_. Good old Raph."

Karai's chest throbs, steady and relentless, almost a heartbeat.

* * *

**_April 3rd. _**

Running is hell. Actual, literal hell. Raph liked to bitch about Donnie and Leo's deep, weird love for marathon runs across the city, but those were four, five hours long, tops. When they were done, he could look forward to a hot shower and some food that wasn't scavenged out of a dumpster. He could _sleep_, and yeah, he might be sore the next morning, but being sore meant he got to stop.

Leo keeps them away from all their boltholes — not just Manhattan, they could go to _Yonkers _and still have a place to crash — and doesn't let Raph and Mikey in on the route he's got planned in his head.

It hits Raph at the end of the first day: Leo's running blind, looping back until Raph's sick of seeing the same four blocks, then shooting off in a straight line for two miles. His instinct screams to stand and fight, but he knows better than to say so. Maybe running will give them enough time to figure out a plan.

Maybe Donnie'll magically show up with the spear.

Yeah, right.

They only stop when someone's about to puke from exhaustion. Raph's glad Mikey's the one who starts wheezing, but then he realizes Mikey's carrying all the food, and he feels crappier than he thought possible. He's just got the spare weapons and a first aid kit to worry about.

So while Mikey and Leo catnap under a water tower, Raph reorganizes their packs. He barely dozes when it's his turn, and he's just started to really fall asleep when Leo shakes him, and it's time to start running again.

Three days of running, and hiding, and running again. There's no sign of the Boar. The streets are louder at night, now that the weather's remembered it's springtime and people aren't running to get out of the cold, but that means it's harder to make out which sounds belong, and which don't. Raph listens when he's running, when he's on watch, when he's sleeping — and for what? For the Boar to come slobbering up the fire escape? Or for Slash?

They might not hear Slash unless he wanted them to hear. Donnie hadn't, the first time.

_Yeah, well, Donnie's gone, so what does it matter? _Raph pricks his finger with his sai. He needs to stretch so he doesn't cramp up, but he's too tired to move. That little pain in his finger is the only thing keeping him awake. Leo and Mikey are dark bundles a few feet away, dead to the world. It'd feel so good to lie down on Mikey's other side, get wrapped up in a blanket, and just pass out. Two hours is all Raph'd need. Not so much, when you think about it. And who's gonna come looking up here? The building they're hiding out in is abandoned, like half the buildings on this side of the block. Plus, it's broad daylight. If the Boar comes swanning down the road, someone's gonna notice.

Raph yawns and pricks his finger again. It's a losing battle. Leo can yell all he wants about falling asleep on watch, but right now, Raph needs to sleep. He's never been this tired in his life. Just two hours.

His head drops between his shoulders. Raph sits up, startled and grunting, jerked awake for a couple seconds. He's not gonna fall asleep. His turn's coming.

_I'm just so tired_. He glares at Leo and Mikey. Why does he always had to take first watch? So what if Leo's taking the middle watch? He's not _first_. No, that had to be Raph — Leo just had to throw his weight around even now, had to be the fearless leader even though there's barely anyone left to lead. And who's fault is that? Who sent everyone away? Who sent Casey away? Casey would have been fine, but Leo didn't want to listen.

Raph's hand goes loose on the hilt of his sai as he sinks, down and down — but the point of his sai slips, and digs into the softer skin between his fingers. He hisses as the pain drags him back up into the musty daylight.

Raph's tired, but he's not _that_ tired. And he's pissed, but he's not pissed at Leo.

"Oh, _crap_," he says, wide awake now. He scans what he can see of the rooftop, but there's no movement, no sound except his breathing. "Guys, get up, we gotta move."

Leo and Mikey don't wake up when he shakes them. They just keep dreaming.

"Guys, come _on._" What can he do? He can't carry them both, no matter what's coming. They've got to wake up.

He's shaking Mikey with both hands when he hears a footstep on the gravel. Ten feet away, tops, no way to tell who or what it is.

But he knows, even before he hears Slash say, "Can Raphael come out and play?"

Raph lets go of Mikey's shoulders. Mikey's face is slack and empty — but he's still breathing, and so is Leo. That's something.

He crawls out of the tower's shadow, blinking in the sunlight, and finds Slash leaning on the maintenance shed, lazily smiling at him.

"Slash." He slots his sai back into its holder, and waits. Slash can move scary-fast, but Raph's pretty sure the Boar didn't keep up with Slash's training over the past ten years — he may be fast, but Raph is faster. Raph is _better_.

_Sure about that?_ snots a little voice, deep down in his head. _Hope you're ready to find out. _

"We didn't get much of a chance to talk last time." Slash picks at a scab on his arm. "I figured, now's as good a time as any to catch up."

"Let them go," Raph hisses. "And maybe I won't pound you into jello."

Slash looks up, eyes almost hurt. Raph starts to think, _Spike_?, before he catches himself. There's nothing left of Spike, the little guy who trusted Raph would always take care of him. Or if there is, it's just something Slash wears to get what he wants. "You think I came here to fight?" he asks, fingers still picking at the scab. "Raphael, don't you —"

"You've got nothing I wanna hear!" Raph yells. He pulls his sai free, and takes a few steps toward Slash before he stops himself. He's got to stay calm, because calm means control and he's not letting Slash run this showdown. "So go back to your boss — no, wait, your _owner —_"

That gets Slash's attention. His hand drops from the scab and his eyes go blank. Raph waits for Slash to rush him, ready to pivot at the last second to aim Slash away from the water tower, but Slash blows a sharp breath through his nose and grins.

"Funny you should mention my boss," Slash says. Raph feels a red pulse start behind his eyes, and reminds himself to keep his knees loose, in case he needs to move. "It's got an offer for you, Raphael. Hear me out."

"Hear you _out_?" Raph laughs, half-listening behind him for any new noises. Nothing. "What part of _you've got nothing I wanna hear_ didn't you understand?"

The heaping pile of _screw you_ in Raph's voice doesn't bother Slash at all. He shrugs away from the maintenance shed, dusting off hands the size of garbage can lids. "I told my boss we'd underestimated you," Slash says. "Figured you'd just fall in with whatever Fearless back there says. Stick with the family no matter what."

He jerks his head at the water tower, smiling as Raph's stomach plummets. All those hours complaining about Leo to Spike, about how Leo didn't get it and never would, they're all being distilled into this moment, where the ugly heart of Raph's doubts and envy grins down at him. Spike listened, and Slash remembers.

"But you don't have to!" Slash keeps smiling, like Raph's done something to be proud of. "Big surprise for my boss there, when I told them that. _Big_ surprise. And they don't get a lot of those. So, they're interested."

"In what?" Raph's voice is dry as sandpaper, and twice as rough on his throat.

"You." Slash's smile falls away. "They see potential in you, Raphael. You're not a loser. You're _strong_. Always have been. The Boar could use that."

Slash's argument hasn't changed in ten years. "Pass," Raph says. "I'm right where I need to be."

"No, you're not." Slash jerks his head at the water tower again. "You really think _they_ need you? They don't understand strength, not like we do. Sure, they're good, but they didn't take me down. _You _did. Because you get it. Always have, just like me."

"Answer's no," Raph snaps. It sounds too true — his brothers don't need him, don't understand him — but even if it is true, he's still the only thing standing between them and Slash. "You got nothing I want."

Slash shakes his head. "I was afraid you'd say that, Raphael." He sighs, and god, it's almost like he's disappointed. "I really didn't want to have to do this, but, boss's orders. You know how it is."

Raph's not going to give him a second's warning. Why waste time? Someone needs a beatdown, it's as simple as that. Maybe, when he puts Slash down, Leo and Mikey'll wake up — but he can't waste time thinking about that either.

He drops into a crouch. Slash is fast as long as he's moving in a straight line, but he's weak at the flanks. Come in hard and fast from the left, and aim for the eyes.

Before Raph can take his first step, Slash lifts his head and sniffs the air. "Right on time," he says, grinning down at Raph. "You'll wanna see this."

Raph doesn't care, he's gonna hamstring Slash and definitely _not_ ask questions later, but a scream, thin and wavering, hits his ears.

Slash smiles wider.

The scream keeps coming, spiraling higher and higher until it breaks like a piece of old wood, and whoever's making all that noise starts to cry. No, they start to beg.

_Let us go please you don't have to do this just let us go_

"That was a pretty big fire you guys set," says Slash casually, sidling up to Raph's side. "You know what big fires mean? Lots of firemen."

_You don't have to do this please _

Raph chokes on his next breath. It can't be what he thinks it is.

"Not so many now," Slash adds, right in Raph's ear. "The boss gets hungry. But there's enough left over to start a whole new garden. Or a fire. Lots of choices today."

_Please_

Raph steps to the edge of the roof. It's easy to spot Karai, slump-shouldered, and easier to spot the warhounds circling her, panting and impatient, but it's the cage behind her that draws Raph's eye.

Karai looks toward the roof, but she's too far away for Raph to make out her expression. Someone in one of the apartments down below starts shouting, and the warhounds move like a wave toward the sound.

"Always gonna be a trade-off, Raphael." Slash backs toward the water tower. Raph spins after him, unable to think past the choice unfolding in front of him, and watches Slash slam a meaty fist into one of the water tower's struts. The wood groans, and starts to splinter. "So, what's it gonna be?"

The strut cracks straight across. Thousands of gallons of water hanging over Leo and Mikey's heads, and they still don't wake up.

The first delayed burst of panic hits Raph's brain. He can't do this, he can't see a way out. Leo and Mikey, or a bunch of people who got caught because of something he did.

The spell starts to crumble away from Leo and Mikey when Slash hits the second strut. They're not moving fast enough, just turning over and grumbling. They have no idea.

"Hey Karai!" bellows Slash. "Let's get it started! Looks like Raphael's made up his mind." He grins at Raph, a dare, a challenge. "Or are you gonna _surprise_ us and play hero?"

Raph thinks of the cage and the people crying in the street, and then blinks his third lid down. He wishes he could make the right choice, the one Leo would want him to make, but he can't. "Nope," he says, and rushes Slash without another thought.

* * *

Nothing quite like waking up and feeling like you've been kicked off a three-story building. Which is _not_ a sentence or an experience most people would understand, but April's never been most people.

She keeps her eyes shut while she assesses the damage. Breathing hurts, so she's probably broken — rebroken, really — a rib or two, but at least she _can_ breathe. Her heart rate's steady. A dull throb takes up the back of her skull, promising to evolve into a truly evil headache if she opens her eyes.

But her mind sprawls outward, curious tendrils exploring the world around her, and the power that tore the Boar's face apart rises when she reaches toward it. Good signs, and even the headache means she's alive to feel it, so she can leave panicking or fighting for her life out of her immediate plans, but —

April doesn't know where she is, but it sure as hell isn't Donnie's lab. If she were there, someone would be looking after her by now, and she doesn't sense any familiar minds around her.

_Which doesn't mean I'm not in the lab_. Her head aches viciously as she pushes her mind out to its farthest range, searching for any sign of the minds she recognizes. There's only empty space around her, no warmth, nothing familiar.

If this is the lab, then she's alone, and there's no good reason why she would be.

Steeling herself for the inevitable, April opens her eyes, bitter dread coating the back of her tongue. It's dark all around her — good for her eyes, not so good for finding out if she's surrounded by her family's _corpses_ — but not blackout dark, and vague shapes suggest themselves through the gloom.

None of them belong in Donnie's lab. April's dread melts away into sick, too-sweet relief for a heartbeat before confusion takes over.

Where the hell _is_ she?

"Guys?" she whispers, then licks her lips and tries again. "Guys? Are you okay?"

No answer.

"Donnie?" she calls. Her voice echoes, but there's no reply. "Are you there?"

The silence tells her everything: wherever Donnie is, he can't answer her. She ignores the sudden clench in her chest, telling herself over and over that Donnie's fine, Donnie's safe and waiting for her with everyone else — she just has to find him.

Two more things April understands better than most people: denial and repression. She can lose her shit when she knows there's a reason to. Till then, she locks it down, out of sight, until the urge to keep yelling Donnie's name passes, and her hands don't ache.

Once she's held her breath long enough to clear her head, she sits up and scans the area. She's inside, judging by the stale air and clammy stones under her hands; when she reaches out, her right hand brushes a cool stone wall while her left hand hovers in emptiness. Water drips sullenly into a reeking puddle about ten feet in front of her, but that's the only sound other than her own breathing.

_Get up and moving. _She doesn't give herself a chance to argue before she pushes to her feet, and immediately regrets moving at all. Her head swims, her stomach knots and churns. Only leaning against the wall until the worst of her dizziness passes keeps her upright. When the dizzy spell fades, the headache's fully blossomed and her mouth is full of sour saliva, but she can open her eyes, and she can walk.

Well, it's more like staggering with a purpose. April keeps her right hand braced against the wall, and inches forward, pushing outward with her mind with every step. She senses nothing except stone, cold water, and colder air - but something presses at the edge of her awareness, a shape she almost recognizes.

The impression melts away like sugar on the tip of her tongue, and then she's alone again, more alone than she's been in months. Even when she was stuck in bed, locked away from the rest of the world, she hadn't been alone. She'd had Casey invading her personal space every twenty minutes, or Mikey tapping at her window - and finally, she'd had Donnie.

She _has_ Donnie. One step after another. She can keep it together.

April walks for almost ten minutes before she reaches the far end of the room, with no sign of a door or passage beyond it. She takes the corner slowly, hand pressed to the wall not just for balance but for reassurance: a ten-minute walk just to find another wall implies a _cavern_, not a room. But the walls are too smooth and straight to be formed naturally, which means _something_ built this vast, silent room, and _something_ put her here.

Another dizzy spell makes the wall feel like it's tilting under her palm, but April refuses to let herself sink to the floor and wait for it to pass. She breathes through her mouth - wherever she is, it smells like wet garbage - and keeps walking as soon as the spell's over.

Three minutes later, April finds the doorway.

Its edges are rough, and wet from slow-running water. Fresher air pours through the opening, which does a lot to send April's headache down a few notches, but she hesitates before crossing the threshold. She's managed to avoid dying so far, but before she takes another step, she needs to ask one vital question: _what the hell is going on_?

The last thing she remembers is the Boar holding her by the throat, its face cracked and leaking, as it slammed her into the lockers. Then she fell, and fell, and fell, and when she woke up, she was alone in a stone room bigger than a football stadium.

"Don't freak out," she murmurs without thinking, and starts when her voice echoes down a corridor. "Huh. Okay then." She clears her throat, and steps through the doorway. There's nothing within her awareness that warns her to hide or stay quiet, but she keeps her footsteps silent. No reason to call attention to herself, in case there is something in earshot. Having both walls within reach is comforting, but that also means less room to maneuver if it comes down to a fight.

Not that it'd be much of a fight, not with her walking around with a broken rib, and a probable concussion, and no weapon. She feels a sharp, brief pang for her tessen. It's not strictly necessary anymore; when you can blast a god in the face and keep breathing afterwards, weapons become optional, but it was familiar, a link to her family.

That same muted _presence_ presses against her mind again, insistent, but it vanishes before April can catch it. She sighs. At least it's getting stronger the longer she keeps walking.

Counting her steps keeps her mind from wandering too far, but a tiny seed of terror's taken root in her chest, no matter how hard she tries to ignore it. Donnie could be down any of the side corridors, bleeding and unconscious or _worse_, or he could be calling for help, and she would never know. Casey could be in pieces just out of her reach.

"Stop it," she hisses at herself through gritted teeth. Her voice is a high, weak whine, a sure sign of an impending freak-out. "Don't lose it. You can't. Keep it together, just a little longer."

Then what? Sooner or later, the darkness or the silence is going to break her, and then she'll either end up screaming her throat to shreds or trying to punch her way through a wall.

_Keep moving_ _forward until something stops you_.

She thinks of the room behind her, the vast, implied emptiness, and swallows.

_Keep moving forward_.

Slower now, April keeps inching forward. Faint shapes dance at the edge of her vision, burning her eyes with bursts of imagined color. But the air's fresher, and cooler, and that has to be a good sign. Unless she's about to tip over into some subterranean lake and drown.

_Always the optimist. _She blinks to clear the shapes away, rubs her aching ribs, and blinks again. A faint white glimmer lingers even when the rest of the colors fade, and even rubbing her eyes and shaking her head doesn't clear it.

"It's not a shape," April whispers, startled again by her own voice. How long has she been walking in silence? No, that's not important — what's important is the white glimmer, shining dimly on the wall to her left.

Light on bricks. The fleeting presence isn't someone else's mind, it's a _place_. It's the lair, so familiar it's half-alive.

And she's getting closer.

"Guys?" she calls. There's no answer - but she's _home_. Only a matter of time. She tells herself not to take risks, to take it slow, and starts jogging toward the light anyways.

After ten seconds, she can see the vague shape of her hand if she holds it in front of her face; a minute after that she can make out the source of the light: a faint pinprick directly ahead of her, like the sun seen from Mars.

She starts to run, holding her ribs and powering through her headache, thinking, _Donnie, I'm coming, hold on_.

Her legs burn by the time she makes out the bright flames throwing off the light, but she keeps running, relishing the burn after so many weeks of inactivity, and realizes too late the torch isn't hanging from the wall, but held high in someone's hand.

It's not Donnie. It's a complete stranger, wrapped in scraps of dark fabric from head to toe. In the time it takes for April to take three steps, the stranger raises its free hand. The torchlight glitters on the edge of a blade.

_Hit first, apologize later_. April barely reaches for her power before it coils through her nerves. She lets out a wild, shrill yell as it gathers eagerly in the palm of her right hand. God, it feels like sticking her arm in a fire and not being burned.

The stranger's arm twitches, and the metallic glitter flies toward April's face.

Too late. She's faster. April's power bursts out of her in a seething bolt. It knocks the shuriken aside and slams into the stranger, dead-center in their chest. When it connects, April's headache disappears, her ribs stop aching, and the taste of honey fills her mouth. She can run forever, now. She can _fly. _

The stranger cries out and staggers, dropping the torch as they fall. They claw at the faded silk covering their face, moaning with their face turned to the wall.

"What did you _do_?" they rasp.

"Who the hell are you?" April asks, still holding out her hand. "What are you doing here? Did the Boar send you?" She inhales, relishing how clean she feels, how pure, as her injuries heal. "Where's Donnie?" she says, when the stranger doesn't reply.

"Donnie?" the stranger whispers, a few silent moments later. "Donnie's...here?"

April has enough time to think _oh, shit_ before the stranger turns around, their face lined and grey in the torchlight. But _alive_, impossibly alive.

"What are you?" asks the other, older April.

* * *

A/N: Four more chapters left! Thank you, everyone, for sticking with me. 3


	23. Part Seventeen

**_Elsewhen._**

Putting the spear back in its box takes more effort than Donnie expects. Sure, maybe he's a little possessive over his tech, but he knows when to put the toys away. It might take a little prodding, but he does it.

This doesn't feel anything like packing up the lab for the night. The spear's tremors intensify when he pulls one hand away to flip open the box, like it's pleading with him not to let go. And to tell the truth, he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to let it out of sight for a second, let alone lock it inside musty wood and then walk away.

A flood of heat pours out of the spear and into his hand. Seems like the spear agrees with him.

The thought of the spear preferring one thing over another lets Donnie slip it back into the box and close the latches. Preference means sentience, and Donnie's not quite ready to wrap his head around the idea of a weapon with a personality. Maybe after a nap and about a gallon of coffee.

_Mikey and Leo would love this_. He smooths both hands over the box's lid. _It's straight out of one of their weird fantasy novels from the seventies._

Thinking about his brothers stings, but all the poison is gone from the wound. He's got the spear. He's going home —

Leonardo clears his throat from the door.

— when the work is done here.

"Right." Donnie dusts his hands on his thighs as he stands, and gives Leonardo a sheepish smile. "Sorry. Got a bit distracted. It's…" He falters over his next words, not sure if he should bother trying to explain. Talking about how the spear felt in his hands would feel awful close to gloating: _Look at what I can do that none of you could!_

Donnie shuts his mouth and spreads his hands, where the spear's solid warmth lingers. "Sorry," he says again.

"Don't apologize." Leonardo takes off his glasses and polishes them on a scrap of cloth. "So it's the real thing?"

"The real —?" Donnie cocks his head, the warmth in his hands fading. "You know I have no basis for comparison, right? It's not like I'm an expert in magical spears."

"You're the Champion," says Leonardo, as if that's enough.

"Yeah, and it didn't exactly come with a rule book." Donnie squeezes his head in both hands, frustration welling up like blood from a cut. The spear tugs at his attention from behind, and Leonardo's milky eyes pin him in place. He's cornered.

"It felt…good," he says, when it looks like Leonardo's just fine with staring him down till he fills the silence. "Isn't that enough?"

He doesn't say, _it recognized me_. There's still a part of him that doesn't trust anything that feels good or right, because he knows better — he's Donnie, and it always gets taken away.

Look at what happened to —

_Shut the door._

Leonardo makes a considering noise as he settles his glasses back on his face. "It'll have to be." A brittle smile pinches the corners of his mouth. "Come on, we've got a long day ahead of us." The hem of his coat whispers against the doorframe as he spins to leave — no matter the universe, all Leos love a dramatic exit — without waiting for Donnie to follow.

The door hisses closed behind him, and the lock cycles through with a gentle sigh. Even with a wall between them, the spear still plucks at the perimeter of Donnie's mind, impatient to go to work. But he keeps his eyes on Leo, and doesn't look back once.

A few grey-suited workers move through the repair bay, watching Donnie covertly as he walks by. None of them make eye contact, and that's fine with him. They've got more important things to worry about him; he and Leo leave them to their soldering irons and spools of copper wire, their tunneler and jeeps, and climb the stairs without speaking.

* * *

After two hours of pouring over old maps in bad light, the inside of Donnie's head feels like it's been rubbed with sandpaper. Not that he's going to ask for a break; he's still got the remnants of his pride, and if these brothers don't need one, he can hold on a little longer.

_Careful, Donnie, that sounds a lot like you're trying to fit in_.

That needs to be the absolute _last_ thing on his mind. There's no place for him here, not now, and definitely not later, once he's struck the final blow and broken the Boar down to molecules. He'll serve his purpose, and then he'll go home. Simple as that. Trying to heal wounds that his own face keeps reopening is a waste of energy.

He gives the back of his neck a surreptitious squeeze to ease out the ever-tightening knot, but he catches Raphael's gaze as he straightens up. Raphael narrows his eye, then clears his throat.

"I dunno about you guys," he says. "But I'm beat. Let's take a few, ease out the kinks?"

Leonardo doesn't look up from the map stretched out in front of him. "We've got a lot of ground to cover," he murmurs. "It'd be more productive if we broke the back of it now."

"Yeah, but we've been at it since like, dawn," says Mike, jerking a thumb at the window. A few indifferent rays of grey light are breaking through the looming cloud cover toward the east, barely enough to qualify as _light_, let alone _day_. "Time to take a breather."

With a sigh, Leonardo waves them away. "Fine, point taken. Get some food or some sleep, and be back here in an hour." He doesn't rise as the rest of them do, even when Mike taps his heels together and snaps a salute.

Donnie lingers awkwardly at the table. He wants out of the stale, incense-laden air, but the sight of Leonardo hunched over the maps, alone, tugs at his heart. None of the brothers should be alone so close to the end.

"Hey, Donnie." Raphael claps a hand on his shoulder, and pulls him out of the room. "C'mon, take a walk with us."

Mike kicks the door closed behind them, and then sidles up to Donnie's other side. "So," he says, nudging Donnie's shoulder with his own. "What'd it feel like? You know, the sp —"

"Shut up," Raphael mutters, and picks up the pace. "Keep a lid on it for five seconds, all right?"

Without maps and battle plans to distract him, the pull of the spear is harder to ignore. His hands pulse, once, with remembered warmth, and he's tempted to excuse himself and go back to the repair bay. Just to check on it.

Then Raphael pushes open a door, and ushers Donnie inside. It's just as cramped and dark as the room Donnie slept in earlier, but there's a solid, lived-in smell here, where his room only smelled like dust and bleach. He trips over what feels like a pile of shoes two steps in, and decides hugging the wall is his best bet till the lights come on.

"Sorry about that," Raphael mutters from the doorway. "Dumbass is always leaving his stuff around. Hold on, I'll get the lights."

Mike snorts. "Thought you would've gotten him house-trained by now, seriously."

"Have you _met_ Casey?"

Donnie smiles to himself, knowing no one will see. It's good to know this conversation survived the translation between universes, too.

His smile melts away the instant Raphael turns on the lamp, and he meets Alice's cold gaze across the cluttered room.

"Whoa — kiddo." Mike cuts a quick glance Donnie's way, then moves into the space between him and Alice. "Leonardo said you…"

"He said I freaked out and ran off, right?" Alice rubs her thumbs over her knuckles, where the skin is raw and blistered red where it isn't broken completely. "And that he'd asked Casey to make sure I wasn't off punching walls somewhere?" She holds up both hands, knuckles out. "Oops."

"You _did_ freak out," Raphael says. "Unless you're calling Leonardo a liar —"

"Oh, _relax_." With a sigh, Alice drops down onto the edge of the bed. "I had a bad moment."

Mike grabs one of her wrists, waves her hand in front of her face. "You call this a bad moment? Alice, you know Leonardo's gonna blow his lid when he sees this. After the Karai thing —"

Alice lets her arm slide limply out of Mike's grip. "This doesn't even compare to the Karai thing, you know that."

Donnie stands very still against the wall, held there as much by self-control as he is by the swelling undercurrent in the room. He's hearing half the conversation, and that about three decades of history lie beneath every word spoken; staying still and keeping his mouth shut are by far his best options — for staying out of the blast radius, for piecing the story together.

Of course, that's not what happens. Alice leans around Mike's shell and gives Donnie a sharp, glittering smile.

"Let me guess" she says. "You'll just be taking the spear and going, right? Back to whatever shithole you crawled out of?"

Donnie's ready for hostility, so he doesn't flinch, but there's a stark note of something else in Alice's voice: fear.

He bites down on his first reply — _I just spent the last few hours planning an assault with your uncles, do you really think I'm going anywhere?_ — and his second — _I want the Boar dead as much as any of you, and I'll start here_ — and says the one thing he can, knowing he's just plunging the knife deeper.

"I'm not going anywhere till this is done."

The whole truth. No evasions. It is, after all, important to be accurate.

Alice, to Donnie's total surprise — and judging by how they rock back on their heels, Raphael and Mike's too — bursts out laughing.

"That's great," she says, still laughing. "You won't have long to wait, then. When _does_ the suicide mission start, exactly?"

Mike grabs her shoulder and gives her a shake. "This is why Leonardo benches you, kiddo, come on."

"Can we cut the crap already?" Raphael flips his eyepatch onto his forehead, then rubs at the slack skin underneath and sighs. "It _is_ a suicide mission, Mike. There's no way we're getting around that."

"What, you're on the crazy train now too?" Mike spits. Donnie feels himself fade out of their awareness completely. It's like lancing a wound, but the infection never ends. "It's bad enough the kiddo thinks so, but you? Come on, Raphael, you gotta know —"

"What I know," Raphael says, still rubbing his empty eye socket, "is that the Boar's gonna see us coming from miles away, and we wouldn't get through the grinders even if we still had the tank. Every street from Tenth to the lair's in the kill zone." He pushes his eyepatch back into place and gives Donnie a wistful smile, the sad twin to Leonardo's. "We're not gonna get you in twenty blocks of the Boar or Shredder, no matter what Mary Poppins here or Fearless wanna believe."

"I don't _believe_ you," Mike says. "This is our _one chance_, and you're what, givin' up? What does Casey have to say?"

"Casey's on board with Raphael and the kiddo," says Casey from the door.

The past two days have been some of the most surreal and wrenching of his entire life, but Donnie's brain is stuck on the fact that Casey Jones — who has no inside voice, in any universe — managed to walk into the room without any of them noticing. He swallows his laugh in time, thankfully, because the last thing this situation needs is him coming down with a case of the giggles.

Casey edges past him with a small nod, not quite meeting his eyes, and sits down next to Alice. But it's Mike he turns to, face drawn and grey. They're all grey, Donnie realizes, because they live in a world where the fires never stop burning.

Pity so thick it nearly chokes him fills his chest, but Casey's talking, and Donnie forces himself to listen.

"You haven't been around, Mike," he says. "Bein' here, seeing what it's like — there's no way out. If we do this, we're dead, spear or not. We can't get close. Streets'll chew up anyone who tries. We've seen it," he adds in an undertone.

"That's no reason to stop tryin'!" Mike throws a betrayed look around the room. He's kind enough to include Donnie. "Guys, we got the _spear_. We got the _Champion_. We gotta try."

"No one's saying that," says Alice. She looks up from her battered knuckles. "But let's not kid ourselves. We're dead. Leonardo can talk about the work left to do, but let's face it. Maybe that's…"

Raphael finishes the sentence for her: "Maybe that's not the worst thing in the world."

Casey falls back on the unmade bed. "We _know_ that's not the worst thing in the world."

A well-worn silence settles over the room. No one looks at each other, and Donnie's wondering if he can make a silent exit and sneak down to the repair bay when a thought strikes him. It's so simple he ignores it at first — easy to do when the room is full of exhausted, muted anger, and the spear tugs quietly at his mind — but the thought rises again, and his mouth goes dry.

"What about ignoring the streets?" he says, his heart picking up speed. Everyone turns in unison to look at him, and all of them look like they'd forgotten he existed. That's fine. He's far past being offended, there's a plan bubbling at the back of his head and even the song of the spear is fading away.

There are subway maps in the piles in Leonardo's room, and there's a half-dead tunneler in the repair bay. Oh, how did he miss this before? Fifteen years of never seeing the sun while they memorized every inch of the sewers —

"What if," he says, and pauses to relish the moment when his plan solidifies. "What if we went _under_?"

* * *

"The subways," Leonardo says, for the second time.

Donnie pushes down on his impatience and nods. "Well, not exactly the subways. What I'm suggesting is that we use them as guidelines, and use the tunneler to go beneath them. It's not elegant, but —"

"We haven't accessed the subways in decades," Leonardo says, thoughtfully, as if Donnie hadn't spoken. "Not since —" He lifts one hand palm-up. "You realize most of them have collapsed?" he asks.

As if that wasn't something Donnie thought of in the first thirty seconds of forming his plan. "That's a military-grade tunneler you've got in the basement. It's built for boring holes through mountains, and for surviving anything it finds along the way. We're talking radiation shielding, ground-penetrating radar, the works. It can handle anything short of total infrastructure collapse — and since you've still got buildings standing, I assume that hasn't happened yet."

Everyone's looking at him, their expressions ranging from rueful amusement to seasick. Donnie coughs, then shuffles his feet. "Sorry," he says. "Get me started, and I just can't stop."

"I think I'm gonna be sick," Mike announces. "Jeez, that's creepy." He rubs the stump of his arm. "It's just like —"

"We know," says Leonardo. He takes off his glasses, sets them to one side on the table. Instead of polishing them, he folds his hands and stares at Donnie for a long time. "It really is extraordinary," he murmurs. "You could be him, give or take a few years."

Donnie braces himself for Alice to cut in with_ Like hell he could be,_ but when he chances a look in her direction, she's folded herself against the wall next to the window. She doesn't acknowledge him at all.

"At any rate," Leonardo goes on, the thoughtful slope of his voice disappearing and taking on a hard strategist's edge, "travel underground poses its own sets of challenges. Yes, we have the tunneler, but it hasn't been operational in years."

"What's wrong with it?" Donnie asks, then shakes his head. "No, wait, it's the Goliath model, right? Probably bad fuel injectors. That'll take me an hour to bypass."

Leonardo smiles coldly. He's reassessing Donnie, even though his pale eyes give nothing away. "You're selling yourself short," he says.

"Call it a liberal estimate," Donnie replies, then pushes ahead before anyone else can jump in. This conversation's already taken twice as long as it needs to; he has a plan, and they need to let him get to work. "Anyways, using the subway map to guide us once we're underground — we don't have to follow it exactly, but it'll give us alternate routes if we get blocked — we make our way to the spire." He crouches next to the table and traces the route. "The tunneler can carry four people. Five, if we're okay with not having any elbow room."

"Seven," says Casey. He shrugs and scratches his chin when Donnie looks his way. "What? You think we're gonna let you do this alone? All or nothin', Don."

"It's a solid plan," Leonardo says, ignoring everyone but Donnie. Under the weight of his stare, Donnie feels the rest of the room fall away, until it's just Leonardo's weary face and blank eyes filling his head. Even the pull of the spear fades to a slight tug. "Right up until you consider the Boar's defenses." He taps a fingertip on the map, right along the line Alice pointed out hours before.

_Meat grinder_, Donnie thinks, his tongue dry as dust.

"We don't know if they stretch below-ground." Leonardo taps the map again. "We haven't had the manpower to use on recon missions. And with the obvious damage to the infrastructure —" He gives Donnie another chilly smile. "I decided not to risk it."

Alice exhales sharply. An entire lifetime of arguments is captured in the sound, like flies in amber.

Donnie shudders at the metaphor. A bit too close to home.

"But what I do know is that the defenses go down for a few minutes after they're…activated." Leonardo lifts his chin when he's done speaking, and Donnie doesn't think he imagines seeing Leonardo's shoulders stiffen, like he's waiting for a blow. He doesn't have to wait long.

"They _what_?" Alice shouts from the window. "You smug asshole, how long have you been sitting on that?"

"Why the hell didn't you say so before?" Raphael's face is grey, his mouth drooping in a slack, betrayed _o_. He doesn't shout, but Donnie still hears him clearly over the others' yelling and his pulse roaring in his ears.

"It wasn't pertinent," Leonardo says, unruffled on the surface. Donnie's close enough to see the way his hands tighten on the edge of the table.

"Not…pertinent?" he manages, once the first roar has died down, and everyone's glaring at Leonardo instead of him. "That's a game-changer. That's — that's the _definition_ of pertinent. Why would you sit on that?" He can't keep the accusation out of his voice. If he'd known that going in —

"No." Leonardo hits the table with his fist, once. Everyone jumps. His voice doesn't change a decibel. "The game-changer is the _spear_. Now we have it. Now we have _you_." He lifts his fist, and jabs one finger toward Donnie's face. "Everything's different now."

The spear, its pull strong enough to bend light. It hasn't leveled the playing field, but if they can get close, they have a shot. With luck, that's all they'll need. Donnie knows it's certainly all they'll get.

Luck, though — since when has he ever had that?

_I had something better,_ he thinks, staring down at his hands. _I had my family. I had —_

He shuts the door, gently.

"The only problem," he says a moment later, "is the activation." He lifts his head, feels every muscle in his neck aching as he does, and makes sure to meet everyone's eyes. "Someone's going to have to set it off."

Leonardo nods, like Donnie's just announced they need oxygen to breathe: affirming, but not particularly surprised. "I think you'll find we won't lack for volunteers," he says.

Donnie's stomach drops. "You're kidding."

"No, I'm not." Leonardo's sweet smile ghosts across his face. "I overheard what you all were talking about. Casey forgot to close the door."

"Dammit, Case," grumbles Raph. Mike and Alice grin, and try to hide it.

"But you're not wrong," Leonardo goes on. "It was always going to be a suicide mission. I just wanted…to hold off, as long as I could. Hope can be a powerful weapon."

Donnie says, "Or poison," before he can stop himself, and the bitterness in his voice shocks him. Shocks everyone in the room, by the looks of it. Even Alice is looking at him with something close to sympathy.

Leonardo recovers first, and nods. He runs his hands over his face, his breath shuddering out of him. "You're right. It _is_ poison. There's nothing left to save. I waited too long, I —"

"No." Donnie's not going to let them fall apart now, not when they're so close. Let them think of this as one more impossible battle, the kind they faced day after day when they were too young to know they should listen to the odds. "You're all still here. The people downstairs — there's always something. Always _someone_." He bites the inside of his cheek till he tastes blood, clenches his hands until the little bones groan. "I promise, we can do this."

He looks around at everyone again, at their still, expectant faces. The spear pulls at his mind again, almost the last warmth left in the world, and he damns himself with the same old promise.

"I can fix this. We can _win_."

At the window, Alice smiles.

* * *

Behind April, the torch gutters and throws the other April into uneasy shadow: black pits for eyes, hollow cheeks. She's missing one earlobe, and what April can see of her neck is covered in swirling, thick scars.

"I asked you a question," says her double. She tilts her head so the shadows hide her scars and the ragged leftovers of her ear, and narrows her eyes. "You can talk, right? When you're not body-slamming people."

"Yeah, I can talk," April shoots back. She crouches down to grab the torch, happy for a reason to put herself in shadow. There's no telling what her face is giving away.

"Are you going to answer?" Her double hisses and clutches at her side. She leans against the wall and slowly slips to the floor, cradling her ribs. "God, what did you do to me? I feel like I just got hit by a train."

"Sorry," April says, almost sincerely. "You threw a shuriken at me."

"That doesn't seem to have bothered you too much." Her double shrugs. The movement turns her shadow into a rolling tangle thrown high on the tunnel wall. "Did you see where it went? I don't have that many left."

April hesitates. You don't just hand over weapons till you're sure they're not going to be used against you, not even to someone who's wearing the same face.

Her double smiles. "Let me guess," she says, hissing again as she stretches her legs out in front of her. "You're thinking about how you don't want to give a potential enemy something they can use. Right?"

"Something like that," April murmurs. She can afford a little honesty. The only other living thing in this tunnel is trying to catch her breath two feet away.

"I'd say I don't blame you, but I really want that shuriken." There's anxious need written all over the other April's face; under the roil of her own emotions, April feels a surge of want. "Did you see where it went?"

"Somewhere over there." April points with the torch. "I'll hold the light," she offers, when her double gives her a baleful look and heaves to her feet.

"Wow, thanks," she says, and limps down the tunnel. April inches along behind her, the torch and her raised hand held between them. Finally, the other April stoops, groaning, and lifts something off the ground. "Got it. Looks like it survived whatever you did, thank God — and don't think I've forgotten you haven't answered my question." She turns around, grey-skinned in the torchlight, with her eyes gleaming sharply in a hard, lined face.

_I hope I never look like that_, April thinks, and hates herself for it.

"What the hell are you?" The other April's voice is cracked and raspy from disuse, but there's no mistaking the tone, not when April's used it herself so many times over the years: no more evasions.

April could take her double; she's got the torch, and she's got power singing under her skin, enough to smash the tunnel into dust if she wanted. What makes her answer is the face staring back at her, defeated and furious and still proud. Under the age and the suspicion, there's loneliness, an unspeakable ocean of it.

"April O'Neil." She lowers the torch so the light isn't shining into her double's eyes. "Born in New York, raised in New York, and —" She licks her lips, the power surging through her. "And turned into a science experiment in New York. What about you?"

The other April smiles. "You too?" When April nods, her double's smile widens, but her eyes are steel-sharp above it. "The goddamn Kraang. What a bunch of _assholes_."

There's nothing to say to that, so April just nods again. Nods and smiles, because it's a perverse relief to know someone else finally understands.

"It seems like I missed out on a few upgrades," the other April goes on, her eyes focusing thoughtfully over April's shoulder. "That…whatever you did, I can't do that."

"Yeah, it's not exactly standard."

"No?" the other April prompts. She shrugs when April shakes her head. "All right, I won't push. Your turn."

_Where are the others _and _what are you doing down here_ are the first two questions that come to mind, but while they're fighting for dominance, what April actually asks is "What do you want me to call you? Because _the other April_'s going to get old, really fast."

Her double snorts, then clutches her side again. "Who says _I'm_ the other April?" she asks. "Well, I guess I'm not really in a position to argue, am I? Call me…O'Neil."

* * *

They walk in a not-quite-friendly silence until O'Neil clears her throat.

"So, whatever you do," she says. "Do they come with, like, healing powers? I know, it's stupid," she adds, when April gives her a surprised look. "I figured I'd ask, because this hurts like hell." She waves at her side with a sheepish smile.

"No," April admits. "It —" She cuts herself off before she can say _It only works that way for me_, and covers with a sigh. "It's pretty much what you just saw," she says instead.

_Always hold something back, _comes Leo's voice. _Your allies will forgive you. Never let down your guard, except with family. The family you choose_.

Her eyes sting. The walls around her are so familiar she could navigate by the echoes of her footsteps, but there's nothing in her head, not even a whisper, of her family. Just an old woman wearing her face, her mind almost as shrouded as April's own. All April gets from her are ripples of pain from what must be two bruised or broken ribs, and a faint pulse of suspicion. Everything else is hidden behind gauzy layers of subtle misdirection: _don't look, there's nothing here._

April wouldn't mind learning that trick herself, but asking means admitting she's poking around. She's sure O'Neil's tried the same thing, but bringing it out into the open seems…rude. It's ridiculous to think about manners when they're stuck in the dark together, but April keeps her mouth shut, and her scans passive.

O'Neil snorts again. "Well, won't be the first time I've had to deal with a couple broken ribs."

"Sorry about that," April says, staring at the floor in sudden awkwardness. "I wish —"

"It's not going to kill me." O'Neil barks a laugh, then coughs wetly. "If it does, I'd thank you."

The abrupt bitterness in O'Neil's voice slants April off-guard. She looks up, and finds O'Neil grinning at her, ten years dropping off her face as she does.

"You heard me," O'Neil says. "I'd thank you."

April's not squeamish when it comes to death — it'd be a bit hypocritical considering how she spends her time — but something in the light way O'Neil tosses off the words makes her tongue shrivel. Maybe that's how O'Neil wants it, because they go back to walking in silence, with the brittle snaps of the torch the only noise.

It's easy to lose track of time, surrounded by so much quiet. It's easy to lose _yourself_, let all thoughts slip away until your mind's smooth as glass. April doesn't realize O'Neil's out of sight until a cough breaks her out of her quasi-trance. She turns around to find O'Neil leaning against the wall, holding her side.

"Sorry," she says. "Just need a minute to catch my breath."

"Is there anything I can do?" April asks, even though she knows there won't be. "Do you have supplies anywhere? Something to…"

The wry, almost pitying look O'Neil gives her makes April shut her mouth with a click. "Where do you think I'd keep supplies down here?" O'Neil asks.

"The lair's not far, right?" April says, embarrassed pride making her voice stiff. God, she hates when people give her that look. "Maybe there's something there we can use."

O'Neil shakes her head, all wryness gone. "How far do you think we are from the lair?"

"I don't know — if I had to guess, half a mile, tops?" April tries to keep her frustration tamped down, even though she knows she's being led, and the hairs on the back of her neck are standing up.

"Which way?"

"The way we were — oh my God, just come out and say it," April snaps, gripping the torch till her knuckles ache.

O'Neil stands up, wheezing on every exhale. "You could walk that way for forty miles, and you wouldn't be any closer to the lair than you are now," she says. "No matter how far you walk, you're never going to get there. But the lair doesn't matter. You don't want to go there."

"Why not?" April's heart stutters against her ribs. "The others —"

"The others," O'Neil says, her voice rising, "are gone. Along with the lair, and New York." She coughs again, then wipes her mouth on her sleeve. "The Boar took it all," she adds, her voice dropping to a rough whisper, shaded with years of regret and grief that never mellowed. In the uneven light of the torch, she looks like an animal, all desperate eyes and old fury. "It threw me in a cage, then it wouldn't even let me die. It put me _here_. I can't get out." O'Neil bares her teeth. "So don't worry about what you did to me. The Boar's not going to let me die. Not while it can still have some fun."

"It's here?" April hates herself for sounding so weak, but there's no stopping the slow crawl of dread down her spine. Her hands still hold the echo of the Boar's perfect, waxy skin, in the moment its face broke under her fingers.

It said, _I have killed you twice_, and smiled.

"Yeah," says O'Neil. "So believe me, there's no point in trying to get home. I've tried." She lifts her eyes to the ceiling. "No one's coming for us."

April draws a slow breath, then reaches out — not for O'Neil's mind, but for the bright glimmer still shining in the back of her head. It's distant, like seeing the Sun from Mars, but she'd know its constant warmth from any distance.

_Donnie_, she thinks, eyes prickling again, and reaches.

For a long moment, there's nothing. No hope, no steady brilliance, just a vast and lonely gap. She feels O'Neil's eyes on her, then reaches a little farther, straining at the furthest limits of her powers. She shoves her awareness in one last breathless push, out into the silent nothing beyond her mind.

There — a momentary brightness, someone gasping awake, and then a shock of recognition before April's control snaps and she sinks back into herself.

_April? _comes Donnie's voice, a galaxy away.

She falls against the wall, stars bursting behind her eyes, struggling for breath — but smiling. When she manages to open her eyes, O'Neil is staring at her, open envy and a faint, bewildered hope on her face.

"What did you just do?" she asks. "What did you —"

"You're not alone," April says, still smiling. She's not sure she could stop if she had to. Donnie's mind — she felt it, and she heard him, and it doesn't matter how far away he is, she'll get there.

Because she has a _direction_.

"Come on." April pushes herself off the wall, lifting the torch high. "I know where he is."

O'Neil makes a quiet, heart-hungry noise, and follows.

* * *

The familiar press of Donnie's mind against April's fades in and out, like a radio station in the hill towns near the farm. She never completely loses it, but each time it drops out, she has to stop the headlong rush through the tunnels, and wait, breathing hard, to find him again.

O'Neil never complains. She doesn't say anything at all, but she watches April with eyes hooded and impenetrable in the torchlight.

"Sorry," April wheezes, as she stops mid-step for the sixth time. "It's hard to — keep track —" She gives up on finishing the sentence, and focuses on taking long, smooth breaths while she pushes her mind out, and out, into the stillness. The power running through her nerves seems to have taken care of any possible pain, though April knows not to be over-confident. Just because something doesn't hurt _now_ doesn't mean nothing's wrong, or won't be in the near future.

_Conserve resources, especially finite ones_, says Master Splinter's voice. _Your body may be your most versatile tool, but it also your most finite. You only get one_.

"Thanks, Sensei," she says under her breath, and opens her eyes. O'Neil's leaning against the wall, breathing hard with her eyes squeezed shut and one hand braced against her side. April feels a shaft of guilt; if she's feeling this powerful, like she could run for days, then it's at O'Neil's expense.

"Do you need a break?" she asks. "We can wait a bit, let you get your breath back."

O'Neil shakes her head and pushes off the wall. April knows the stubborn angle of her — their — jaw. The answer's still going to be _no_ in ten minutes, or ten years.

"We need to keep going." O'Neil nods down the tunnel, in the direction they were heading before the touch of Donnie's mind faded. "Can't stop. If he's here, the Boar will know. We have to —" She coughs, and ends up gasping for air before she can finish. April reaches out to steady O'Neil, driven by her guilt, but O'Neil pushes her away. Her bare hand brushes April's forearm, and the dry rasp of her rough palm quietly disgusts April.

"Fine," she says, switching the torch from one hand to the other. "Then let's get moving." She turns around, ready to start their steady jog again, but a thick, muffling blanket wraps itself around her senses, and the tiny light of Donnie's mind goes out.

"Shit!" she hisses. She squeezes her eyes closed, and tries to send her awareness back the way they came. Her mind strikes a sheer wall, and April reels back before trying again. Nothing — just the wall, featureless, blocking her from every angle.

"I've lost him," she says, keeping her eyes shut. The last thing she needs is to see O'Neil's face right now, a mirror of her own loss. "I can't —"

"No," moans O'Neil. The grief and the terrible hunger in her voice fill the tunnel. "We were so close — oh, God, _Donnie_. No, we have to keep trying, come on —" She grabs April's arm, before April can pull back, and the rasp of her skin makes April shudder. "Let's go!" says O'Neil, not noticing or caring about April's reaction, and pulls her back the way they came.

They haven't run fifty feet before pain shears through April's head. She stumbles, drops the torch, and falls against the wall with both hands pressed against her temples.

April knows when she hit the ground, but her nerves are too busy processing the explosion inside her head to register any more pain. She tries to scream, but she's blind and voiceless, writhing in agony on the clammy ground.

She knows the pain's started to fade by the sound of O'Neil calling her name. After that, other sensations start to assert themselves — the cold stones, the heat of the torch flickering against her face, something warm and wet under her nose and on her neck. She opens her eyes, and shuts them again when the torchlight makes fresh pain burst behind her eyes.

"What the hell?" says O'Neil. Her rough hand prods at April's arm and shoulder; April pulls away from the touch, more vague disgust welling up, and forces her eyes open. O'Neil sighs, then sits back on her haunches. "You okay?" she asks.

April scrubs her hand under her nose, not surprised at all when it comes away bloody. "Not sure," she croaks, around the sour-copper taste dripping down her throat and her pounding her.

"What just happened?" O'Neil leans close, one hand held out as she picks up the torch with the other, but April inches away, sitting up to cradle her head in both hands.

Donnie's steady brightness is gone, wiped clean out of her skull, like it had never existed to begin with. She pushes, her stomach twisting as she searches for the light. Her mind hits the sheer wall, but an instant later, a dim flash of pain fills her head.

_Come on, Donnie,_ she thinks, _where are you?_

Nothing. Just the pain, as she throws herself against the walls closing her in. It leaks out of her head, till her shoulder and thigh throb, in time with the old clawed scars on her back. Every scar on her body's waking up, wretched and bright on the dark canvas of her body.

And when she pushes forward, the pain grows.

_The body knows when the mind does not_, she thinks. _Wait, where have I heard that before?_

"What is it?" says O'Neil, as April sits up straight and opens her eyes. "Did you get it back? Did you find him?"

April shakes her head, gritting her teeth as she tests the direction again. The walls slip, and she passes beyond them, her mind inching forward as the pain tries to scatter her concentration.

"The body knows," she murmurs, and pushes to her feet. "Come on, I —" She braces her hand against the wall to keep herself upright as vertigo tilts the world around her, and then takes a few tentative steps forward. "It's this way."

"What is? Donnie?" O'Neil's breath is hot on the back of her neck. "Did you find him?"

"No, I didn't — just — let me —" April laughs, even as her stomach churns. God, it _hurts_, but she can trust that. The body knows. It does hurt, it will hurt, but it will pass in time. The Bull promised her that much. She just has to keep moving forward.

Inch by inch, April creeps through the tunnels, with O'Neil at her heels. Every twenty steps or so, she has to stop and lean against the wall till the worst of the pain crests and passes, then she keeps creeping, breathing in ragged gulps and trying to convince herself that she's not slowly bleeding to death. It's just remembered pain, even if her nerves can't tell the difference.

"Are we getting close?" O'Neil whispers.

"I don't know," April says, and groans. Her legs are shaking and she feels the first hints of a fever coming on. _It will pass, it will pass_, she tells herself, and takes another step. And another.

And the pain shatters, the fragile pieces blowing away like sand in the wind. April nearly topples over, light-headed at the loss, and forces herself to stand up straight.

The end of the tunnel glows, a weak suggestion of light. And in her head — Donnie.

"There," April says, and doesn't wait for O'Neil before she sprints ahead. Somewhere in that light is Donnie — her Donnie, O'Neil's Donnie, it doesn't matter which, the mind is the same and that mind is what April needs to put this all together — and there's no more point in waiting. She breathes a thanks to the Bull as she runs, for the pain leading her when her own powers couldn't, and can't help a grin as she passes into the sweet, golden warmth.

She's not grinning by the time O'Neil catches up, holding her side and panting. No, she's staring straight ahead, blinking at the light sheeting down through a wrought-iron grate.

"Donnie?" O'Neil calls, swinging around. "Donnie, God, Donnie, are you here?"

"He's not," April murmurs, through numb lips. _A bit premature with that gratitude_, she thinks. Not quite premature, she corrects a moment later, just inaccurately applied.

O'Neil swears, too soft to make out, then hisses through her teeth as she turns and faces the same direction. April ignores her in favor of taking a step toward the grate, one hand held tentatively out to brush the rusted edges. A shock of pain rewards her, and she smiles. The expression feels cold on her face — more than that, it feels vicious. Triumphant.

"You did it," whispers O'Neil, her heavy hand falling on April's shoulder and squeezing.

Suspended in a pillar of light, barely two feet away, is a wooden spear, the metal head clotted with dark, ancient blood.


	24. Part Eighteen

A/N: Specific warnings for this chapter include: graphic depictions of violence, unreality, and minor character death.

* * *

All Leo wants is another hour of sleep. He'll settle for another five minutes, but it's obvious he won't even get that much, not with Mikey tossing in his bedroll and Raph yelling on the other side of the roof. Not to mention whatever's creaking overhead.

"Just five more minutes," he whispers. "That's all I want."

The creaking catches his ear again, and through the syrup-sticky layers of sleep, Leo feels the first flare of alarm.

When he finally gets his eyes open, all he sees are two people beating the hell out of each other twenty feet away. One is a mountain, slow to turn but still deadly, and the other is —

Leo would know Raph anywhere.

Raph's fighting, alone, and something's still creaking overhead. Leo tears his eyes away from Raph as he untangles himself from his bedroll — too slow, he's so tired, he can't move as fast as he needs to — and watches the closest support strut of the water tower give out completely. Half the water tower drops three feet, thousands of gallons of water shift, and the creaking turns into a scream as the wood begins to shatter.

"Leo! Mikey!" Raph screams. The massive form laughs, nasty as steel wool on skin, and swipes Raph across the back of the head while his attention's divided.

_Slash_, Leo thinks, the sour taste doubling. That's all he gives himself time to think; he dives low and rolls himself and Mikey out of the way as half a block's water supply floods the rooftop. He feels Mikey's startled inhale when the water hits them, and claps his hand over Mikey's mouth.

"Hold your breath!" he yells in Mikey's ear, hoping Mikey's awake enough to understand — and then the water hits them, cold enough to freeze the air in their lungs, strong enough to wash them to the edge of the roof and pin them there.

Mikey thrashes, but Leo keeps his arms locked around Mikey's shoulders till the water pulls back and leaves them gasping for air. When Leo opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is the fine layer of gravel plastered to Mikey's skin.

_At least he's awake_. Leo heaves to his feet, shivering and shaking water out of his nose and eyes, and tries to find Raph past the wreckage of the water tower. A pile of jagged wood blocks half his view of the roof.

Just his view, not his hearing. The air swells with snarls and Slash's low, ugly laughter, the desperate edge to Raph's breath that means he's getting winded and knows it.

Leo reaches back for Mikey without looking and drags him forward at a run. A faint voice in the back of his head mourns the loss of all their supplies, but at least they slept with their weapons on. Food, bandages, extra blankets — they can find more. Provided they survive the next five minutes.

He can't deny how much he wanted this moment; he hated scuttling like an insect through the city. Ugly as this is — and Leo knows it's only going to get uglier — it means an ending.

"Let's make it a good one!" he yells, without knowing he's doing it until Mikey shouts a wordless agreement and surges past him, nunchuks white blurs in the air.

Slash turns his head and opens his mouth wide in a silent laugh. "Mikey!" he bellows. "Good to see you, little guy! Didn't get a chance to catch up last t—"

Mikey's in midair when Slash gets to _guy_, and slams feet-first into Slash's chest before he can finish the sentence. Slash stumbles back two steps but he comes up swinging, a snarl boiling out of his mouth as he claws after Mikey.

But Mikey's not there; he spins away, under the arcs of Slash's thick arms and toward Raph, who's doubled over and clutching the back of his head.

Leo was merciful before, because he remembered how much Spike meant to Raph, even if nothing of Spike remains, and because he had the choice of killing Slash or keeping his family alive — and he will always, always choose the latter.

Tonight, he doesn't have to choose.

"Hey, Fearless," Slash purrs, dropping into a crouch with his head between his shoulders. "Left me a nasty scar not too long ago. Seems like it's time I returned the favor."

Leo tilts his head to the side. Somewhere close by, someone's weeping, but he shuts his heart against it, and lets his third lid slide over his eyes. Let there be no mistake; he's going to end Slash tonight. He unsheathes his katana, relishing the ring of steel, and bows his head.

Slash roars till the rooftop shakes, and rushes Leo — but Raph bodyslams him from the left, and he and Slash smash through the ledge, and fall out of sight.

Mikey moves a half-second faster than Leo, silent and swift as an arrow. He vaults off the roof, leaving Leo alone with icy water splashing against his ankles. It shouldn't have been like this; he would've made it clean, taken it out of Raph's hands once and for all —

_Forget it. Move. Adapt. Your brothers need you. _

The drop's three stories down, and Leo feels every inch in his gut as he plummets, exchanging grace and silence for speed. It's not far to jump when you've spent half your life jumping off skyscrapers for fun, but it is a very, very long way to fall.

A fall started everything: April falling, Donnie reaching. Three stories down.

He hits the ground, knees bent, and rolls to a stop ten feet from where Slash is trying to slam Mikey and Raph through the pavement. Slash's skin is softest at the bridge and elbow, under the jaw and beneath the eye; Leo aims a shuriken at each place as he runs. None of them miss, and Slash's grip loosens long enough for Mikey and Raph to break free. Their shells are dusty and the dry outer edges are riddled with cracks, but none of the cracks have traveled deep enough to worry Leo. Not yet, at least.

"On me!" he yells, while Slash is howling and trying to pull the shuriken from under his eye. "Let's go, let's move!"

A wave of force blows all three of them back. Leo rides the silent concussion with his mouth open in a scream no one can hear; his ears throb with the pressure, and he can't breathe, not till he hits a telephone pole and drops to the sidewalk, all the strength leached out of his body.

When sound seeps back into the world, Leo hears a dozen voices screaming, and the rattling of metal bars.

"Mikey?" he grates out, casting around for anything familiar. "Raph?" His katana lie a few feet away, half-buried in a pile of debris — the entire street's dug up, with chunks of asphalt littering the stoops and sidewalks all around him. He sees Mikey sitting up, a hand clamped to his forehead, and Raph just beyond Mikey, shoving a piece of street the size of a couch cushion off his legs.

_They're alive_, Leo thinks, shaky with relief. There's no time for gratitude; Slash hulks toward them, blood pouring fresh from the raw wound under his eye, and with all his teeth bared.

"You wrecked my face," Slash grunts. "Gonna make you pay for that, Fearless. Gonna take both your eyes. Gonna —"

"Leave them," says a sweet, musical voice. "My pet, my darling one, leave them, leave them and come share with me. Your face will heal, and there will be time for them later, they will not be leaving now. Will they?"

Before he looks up, Leo steels himself to meet the Boar's beetle-black gaze. He remembers the smiling mouth, just a fraction too wide, the fine layer of madness under its features. Leo's ready for all of it by the time he lifts his head, but the Boar's shining, unliving perfection is gone. A web of cracks have shattered its face, and now its nose lists to one side and its smile drifts up through the honey-slow leak of fluid from its eyes. Sheafs of hair unravel from its scalp as he watches, to fall in a soft pile at its feet.

_April_, he thinks, _what did you do?_

"Hello, Leonardo," says the Boar. "So long, and now you have come to play. But first, first I must feed. You interrupted my dinner, my silly, sweet boy, and now you must watch."

One white hand strokes Karai's blank face. Are those claw marks around Karai's eye? Leo tries — and fails — to scrape up a handful of pity for her.

"Leo —" says Raph. He shoves to his feet, groaning, but a twitch of the Boar's fingers sends him back to his knees.

"Stay down," says the Boar, a sharp edge creeping into its voice for the first time. "I will not tell you again."

Raph makes a strangled noise, but Mikey crawls to his side, whispering something Leo can't make out, and he stays down.

"Now," says the Boar, too much delight in its voice for Leo to bear. "Come here, my pet, my lovely Slash, and choose. What shall the meal be tonight? What shall we —"

An anguished scream cuts off its words. Leo's close enough to see the cracked lines of its face twist in disgust, and then it shifts to one side. Behind it is a cage, and dim, pale figures huddle close together in it, shrinking away as the Boar reaches one hand in to stroke someone's arm.

There are darker places than dread or fear, places that have no name. Leo finds one of them as he watches Slash wrench open the door. He drags a man out by his hair, clamps a hand over the man's face as he screams, and then holds the struggling human up for the Boar's inspection.

"Oh." The Boar sighs, dreamy pleasure thickening its voice. "Yes, my pet, my good one, _this_ is as fine a morsel as I dreamed, yes, good, good."

Its tongue rolls out of its mouth. A scream builds in Leo's chest, and fades away, useless.

But something in him snaps, and he's on his feet, grabbing his katana, sure of nothing but getting between the Boar and the terrified, weeping man — and of the tanto under his wraps.

Slash is drooling.

The Boar tilts back its head, teeth gleaming — and its teeth go all the way down, into a black and hollow throat. It doesn't see Leo coming, doesn't seem to hear Mikey and Raph calling his name, and doesn't see Karai meet Leo's eyes, and flinch as she does.

She moves so slightly Leo thinks he's imagined it, just a twitch of her arm and then a step forward, not breaking his gaze once.

The Boar screams and drops the man as patches of blood spring up on its white, white robe.

"You little —" it shrieks, but Karai is already out of reach. She glances back at Leo once, as she throws the cage door wide.

"Karai," he says, smelling lilies as she runs past him, holding her stomach. "You —"

"It wasn't," she snarls, before she disappears into an alley, "for _you._"

Of course not; nothing between them has ever been _for _him. Why would that change now? But the door to the cage is open, people tangling in each other as they try to shove their way free, and the Boar is clawing at its bloodstained robes, too occupied by the damage Karai caused to chase any of its prey down. Even Slash is too shocked to do more than watch Karai's slender shape fade away.

The crowded faces blur together as they race past Leo. Fear twists them out of true, leaves their features nothing more than dark smears where their eyes and mouths should be, but each one coalesces briefly as they take him in. He gets to see sick relief evaporate when they meet his eyes, he gets to hear them scream. He gets to smell the thick welter of their fear as it rises off their skin, and he watches one mouth after another shape the same word: _monsters_.

_Stay still, don't be a threat, don't move_, he tells himself — but in the end, he's just another unfamiliar shape, with a blade in his hand. They're right to run.

Slash shakes off his shock first; he makes a playful grab at a dark-haired woman as she limps past. His heart's not really in it — Leo knows he would have gutted her if he really wanted to make an impression — but her terrified scream and someone's answering cry from one of the apartment buildings shatters Leo's paralysis. He lunges forward, clumsy, and puts himself between Slash and the woman, just before Slash's next blow falls.

A massive fist collides with his shell. It would have pulped a normal spine — score one in the _it's good to be a mutant_ column — but Leo's on his feet and facing Slash before his brain registers the pain. The woman slumps on the ground, clutching her arm and weeping in a language Leo doesn't recognize. It's just nonsense, gibberish streaming through his head and back out without leaving anything to mark its passage. All that matters is ruining the grey-green face in front of him.

Raph blows Leo's plan apart in a heartbeat. Leo doesn't even sense him coming until Raph fills his vision, fists blurring as they batter down on both sides of Slash's head. There's a dull crack, muffled by a few layers of skin and muscles, and then Slash makes a soft, liquid noise of surprise. The bottom half of his jaw swings loose; above it, his eyes are glassy and bemused.

"Whaaaoooooh?" Slash slurs, blood and saliva dripping out of his mouth in equal measure. "Whaaaa — _whaaaaaa_ —"

Raph yells as he leaps, but the Boar's shriek drowns out whatever he's saying. The his fists come down like hammers on either side of Slash's head, and two more muffled cracks split the air as Slash's shoulders disintegrate under the impact.

The air leaks out of Slash in a gauzy little hiss, and he reels from side to side before collapsing on his belly.

Leo stares at the body — because that's what it is now, or soon will be, just a pile of flesh and bone without anything powering it — and then looks up at Raph. His brother uncurls his fists slowly, breathing slowly. Somewhere behind Leo, Mikey drags the woman to the sidewalk and leaves her propped against a mailbox. When he comes back to Raph's side, a silent question flashes between them: _how did that happen_?

Voices swell the air around them; doors and windows slam open in every building on the street. For a handful of seconds, Leo's outside his body, watching from one of the rooftops as three monsters loom over a woman in shredded clothes. There are sirens, in the distance. _Stay out of sight_ is still his first commandment — but he keeps his feet planted on the road. This is where they make their stand.

Let the city watch.

"You little _beasts_," the Boar hisses. It rises off the sidewalk, bowed at the waist, spitting with every word. The long bloody rags of its robe flicker like flames, and a bitter, wretched heat roils out of its mouth. "Filthy little _beasts_, you play at war like children and you think it has meaning, you think you _matter_." The hairline cracks in its face split wide, and a frantic web of light, sickly fireflies flickering in the empty space within, meets Leo's eyes. "You mean _nothing_!" it screams, the long march of teeth down its throat opening as its jaw unhinges. Someone bursts into tears nearby, but Leo can't tear his eyes away from the Boar as it straightens up, and throws its arms wide.

"Let me show you _war_," it says, its own teeth tearing its lips to rags as it speaks.

Leo takes a reflexive step back, spreading his own arms in front of Mikey and Raph, ready to take the hit — but the hit never comes. The Boar roars, its jaw fracturing its face straight back to its ears, then plunges its hands into the street.

The ground ripples outward from where the Boar's hands are buried to the elbows in the asphalt, sending up billows of dust and cracking the sidewalks straight through. These are old buildings, thrown together when New York outgrew neighborhoods daily, and they don't stand a chance as the Boar keeps roaring, and the shockwaves keep coming. One by one they fall into each other like drunks on their way home, support beams snapping like toothpicks and windows shattering, but nothing — not even the Boar's unending roar — can drown out the screams of the people trapped inside.

Block by block, the city crumbles.

* * *

**_Elsewhen._**

When Donnie opens up the tunneler's engine, he finds not only are the fuel injectors totally shot, but the coolant system is leaking in two separate places. On a good day, with all the right equipment, he could rebuild both systems in a few hours, and increase fuel efficiency by at least thirteen percent. He's got all the right equipment — the brothers have a hoard of military-grade spare parts and tools that made his mouth go dry when he laid eyes on it — but there's no time for improvements. This is battlefield surgery, where speed matters a few orders of magnitude more than finesse.

_It's not like it has to do anything besides get us there,_ Donnie tells himself, digging a bottle of industrial sealant out of the toolbox at his side. _One way trip, remember? _

As far as defense mechanisms go, he could do a lot worse than cheerful fatalism. And focusing his attention on the microcosm of repairs makes it easy to push the spear's tug to the back of his head. _This_ is where he needs to be. The time for the spear will come.

Turns out planning for an attack against an eldritch abomination's lair is pretty much the same as planning an attack against anything else: he still has to wait for the sealant to dry, and he still has trouble finding the right socket for his wrench. He could be at home, getting ready to go after the Kraang or the Foot, with his own brothers getting ready a few feet away.

Here, Leonardo's asking people to be torn apart to give them time to get to the Boar, and he's a reminder of everything this world has lost.

He'll stick with cheerful fatalism, thanks.

Besides, focusing on the meticulous rituals of diagnosis and repair means he can ignore what's going on outside the tunneler's walls. If he stops to listen, he can just make out the nearly-subliminal hum of activity in the rest of the bay, but nothing like words or individual voices. It's better this way; if he knew who was nearby, or whose shout cracks through the quiet buzz, he'd wonder if they were one of Leonardo's volunteers, or one of the brothers, or Alice.

He almost expected Alice to stop by, just to make sure she got her parting shot in, but she stayed with Leonardo when he left for the repair bay, and he hasn't seen her since. He's almost certain that's a good thing — neither of them need distractions this late in the game, but he could be a punching bag for a little while, if she needs one. Master Splinter always said to beware what you took into battle; any chink in your armor could let in a killing blow. If she's got something to say, better she spits it out now.

Great advice. Too bad he's not following it himself. Just look at everything he's carrying in with him: there's the usual guilt, the whispers of _What else could I have done_ and _What have I missed_, the homesickness that threatens to crush his chest if he doesn't keep stamping it down, the resigned anger over being expected to solve this nightmare with a plan that basically comes down to _run at the enemy and take your best shot. _

It's the plan of last resort. Every other hope has been extinguished. Donnie arrived just in time to watch it all end. Whether that's in blood or victory is up to him, and the ancient wood and metal waiting for him on the other side of the repair bay.

The sealant's dried. Time to replace the fuel injectors, test the engine, and —

"I thought you said you could just bypass the whole thing," says Leonardo, as he boosts himself through the open hatch. "Changed your mind?"

Donnie shrugs. "I saw you had the spares. This is faster."

Leonardo crouches at his side and fishes in his coat for a heavy metal thermos. "I'll defer to your judgment," he says, and holds the thermos out. "Here. I thought you could use some."

The metal's warm to the touch, and the fragrance that hits Donnie's nose when he opens it makes his stomach cramp with longing. "It's _coffee_," he says, a little stunned. "How did you —"

Now it's Leonardo's turn to shrug. "Our Donnie had secret stashes all over the base. He and April — well, I don't have to tell you, do I?" He smiles, not quite looking at Donnie, his dark glasses catching the worklamp's light. "It's probably terrible. Who knows how long it's been vacuum-sealed? I might not be doing you any favors."

Donnie responds in the only way possible: by tilting his head back and draining half the thermos in a swallow. It's borderline flavorless, but at least there's no sugar or — horror of horrors — powdered creamer diluting it. Just coffee, hot and bitter and familiar.

He caps the thermos and holds it out to Leonardo, who shakes his head. "All yours. Never really acquired that particular taste."

"Right." They sit quietly, not moving, not looking at each other, while the smell of coffee covers the scent of sealant and grease. Donnie lets his head fall against the back of the driver's seat, and closes his eyes. If he could sit like this forever, he would.

But he can't.

"How long do we have?" he asks, regretting the necessity of breaking the first truly companionable silence he's had since he got here.

Leonardo sighs, a weary sound that's far more eloquent an answer than any spoken one could be. "Mike's out with the scouts," he replies. "Once he sends the signal, we'll roll out, and he'll meet us at the rendezvous point. Till then, it's just final checks."

Donnie notices, for the first time, that all's gone quiet outside the tunneler. No hiss and pop of soldering irons, no buzz of voices. Everyone's wrapped up in their own private silences, trying not to think about what comes next.

"I wanted to talk to you before we got started." Leonardo shifts, props his shell against the wall of the tunneler. Donnie waits, eyes still closed and hands still wrapped around the fading warmth of the thermos, and waits. "There's something I only just realized and I…"

He sighs again, so tired that Donnie wants to slide down to the floor of the tunneler and never move. "Whatever happens next, you'll go home," Leonardo says. "I believe that. You're not meant to stay here, with us."

"I know," Donnie says, bitterly surprised at how much this rejection hurts. Alice's anger was one thing, but Leonardo's calm, reasonable voice telling him he isn't welcome is something else entirely. He knows what he's done. Coming here, years after he could have done any real good, utterly destroyed this family.

_And you're supposed to be the _good_ guy, right?_ he thinks at the Bull, a sour taste climbing his throat. _Way to prove it. _

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," he says, opening his eyes to find Leonardo's gaze already on him. "I never meant to — to hurt you. But I'm going to fix this, I _know_ I can, I promise."

"Donnie." Leonardo lays a gentle hand on his knee, that unbearably sweet smile creasing his face. "I know you did. And I believe you. But…that's not what I'm saying. It's not your job to fix us. Or save us."

"Yes, it is," Donnie says, chest burning. It is, it _is_. It always has been. It always will be. "Why else am I here?"

"It took me thirty years to figure it out." Leonardo's still smiling. Now he takes off his glasses, and sets them aside. Beneath the milky cataracts is a faint trace of bright blue and the brother Donnie knows. It's enough to choke him. "I lied to myself, I kept waiting, but now I understand. We don't want to be saved, Donnie. We just want to be done."

Donnie tries to find something, anything to say. But grand speeches have never been part of his skill set, and all he can do is mutely shake his head and Leonardo keeps smiling at him.

"Remember that," Leonardo tells him, squeezing his knee lightly. "When it comes time to end it."

"I can't," says Donnie, finally finding his voice.

Leonardo's smile turns almost pitying. "I know," he says. "You wouldn't be you, if you could." He reaches across the space between them, and throws his arms roughly around Donnie's neck.

Donnie hugs him back, fiercely, trying to put everything he can't say into the contact while he still can. He made a promise, and he's going to fix it. He'll find a way. It's what he does.

"Thank you," says Leonardo into his shoulder. One final squeeze, then he lets go, and slips silently out through the hatch.

The coffee's cold, and the last two mouthfuls are almost all grounds. Donnie drinks it anyways. Then, he sets the empty thermos aside, and goes back to work.

* * *

The final battle comes with a considerable lack of fanfare. If Leonardo is as big a fan of big speeches as Donnie's Leo is, he doesn't give any in Donnie's earshot. By the time Donnie crawls out of the tunneler, the teams have dispersed to their starting points, and it's for him to pile right back in with Raphael, Leonardo, Casey, and Alice. Mike is only present as a voice over the radio.

It gives him a queasy sense of unease, being separated at this late stage, but he keeps his misgivings to himself. The tunneler is still cramped, even without Mike riding along, and everyone seems to have silently agreed to compensate for the lack of space by not talking more than strictly necessary.

Donnie holds the spear upright between his knees, gripping it with both hands. The only lights come from the dimmed dashboard readouts, enough to frost the spear's head with a cold, distant glow. He keeps his eyes fixed on that faint glow, counting the sewer junctions off in his head, listening to the engine for any sign of trouble. There's not much else to do, other than listening to Raphael mutter under his breath as he drives, and thinking about how much this trip is like all the rides up to the farm in the summer. All the rush to get ready in time to leave, and then hours of sitting, so impatient his head aches.

_Is there a farmhouse here?_ It's too late to ask, and it's dangerous to start wandering through those memories. He needs to be present, to find focus, if not peace, in these particulars.

He realizes they've reached the final junction before the grinders with an ugly little jolt. "We're here," he says, leaning forward toward the driver's seat. "We're here, Raphael, we're —"

"Heard you the first time," Raphael says without any heat, and kills the engine.

With the dashboard lights off, complete shadow envelopes the tunneler's interior, and swells every noise till even the quietest sigh hits Donnie's ears like a punch. The sound of Leonardo thumbing on his radio makes everyone jump.

"Mike, we're in position," he says. "Waiting on your signal."

"Copy that," comes Mike's voice, tinny and harsh through the static. "Grinders going — they're active."

Donnie shuts his eyes — a pointless gesture, here in the dark — as Mike goes silent. Active's such a passive word for what they all know is going on up top: six volunteers, for six points of approach, and an army behind them. Six humans being torn apart, bones pulped and muscles shredded, bodies twisted beyond meaning. All to clear the way for him and this brittle piece of wood and hope.

It had better be worth it.

"Mike, are we clear?" Leonardo asks, after thirty seconds of silence. Only static greets his words; he makes a low, frustrated noise and then shifts in his seat.

"Punch it, Raphael," he says. "We can't wait. We'll — we'll meet him there."

Everyone in the tunneler hears the hitch, how it says everything Leonardo refuses to. Raphael exhales in a noisy gust, and turns the engine back on. Donnie counts in his head: two junctions to go, then one, then —

"Oh fuck," says Casey quietly, with all the force of a prayer. "Oh fuck, Jesus, here we go."

The tunneler passes under the grinder, chews up brick and soil and plunges ahead, and if a shiver passes through everyone inside, no one admits it.

_This is it. _Donnie squeezes the spear till his knuckles pop. His pulse is a heavy iron beat in his throat and tongue, but he's not panicking. He's centered, balanced, separated from his fear and adrenaline by the living warmth flowing from the spear and into his body. _This is where it ends. I can do this. I can. I _will_. _

The mantra absorbs all his concentration until the tunneler's path slopes steeply upward, the engine coughing and groaning as the drill eats its steady way through layers of sewers and foundations. They're going to come up straight through the old playground, where dandelions used to sprout all around the poles of the swingset, every autumn.

_Make a wish_, Donnie thinks, as they burst into watery grey sunlight.

The engine heaves one last time, a death-rattle shaking the floor under Donnie's feet, and then wheezes painfully until Raphael shuts it off. It can rust here, one more broken hulk in the middle of the city. It's done its job. Donnie resists the urge to pat the wall as he unstraps from his seat.

_I wish — _

"All right, let's go!" Leonardo's yell shatters Donnie's thought. He kicks the door open, sweeping out and into the playground in a swirl of heavy black leather, his katana already drawn. "Move out!"

There are still two blocks to cover before they get to the courtyard, but with the spear in his hands, Donnie feels like he could take it in two leaps. He jumps, tucks his head as his feet hit the ground, and comes up with the spear held across his body. Then he's running, close on Leonardo's heels, with the others racing behind him.

_I wish_ —

They round the last corner, racing past ash-cloacked buildings on silent feet. Donnie feels himself grinning, feels hope rising in every cell of his body. The voice of the army fills the air ahead of them, gunfire and the clash of metal swelling to greet them. One more block to go. It's almost done. A thousand voices screaming all at once, the air hot on his face and arms, the spear sings in his hands; he doesn't even feel the ground under his feet, just relief, just hope.

The sound of the battle disappears. Leonardo stops so abruptly Donnie collides with him. A startled yell dies in his mouth as he reels back, and sees what's standing at the top of the stairs.

Not just what. Who. Grey, shriveled bodies, tattered skin and clothing fluttering in the wind, scattered at the Boar's feet and forgotten - and Mike on his knees, his head cradled in the Boar's hands.

"Donatello," purrs the Boar. Its voice is all Donnie can hear, and its teeth are slick and red. "My boy, my beautiful boy, you came to me." It laughs, a high girlish sound that makes Donnie's skin go numb. "I saw you coming, I _smelled_ you. I am everywhere you could go. I have been waiting for you."

Mike's eyes meet Donnie's for a heartbeat, one flash of flat, hopeless blue, and then the Boar twists its hands. Mike's neck snaps, and Raphael screams, but all Donnie hears is the emphatic sound of Mike's body hitting the stairs.

* * *

There's no clear way to get to the spear from where April is standing. She's not even sure where the light is coming from; back home, this part of the sewers is a dim, muggy thoroughfare where three different mains meet before running out to the reclamation plant. Now, it's a dry and chilly room, so large it swallows everything but the sound of their breathing.

She shrugs off O'Neil's hand and focuses on the grate under her fingertips. Nothing but old metal — no psychic echoes, none of the weird crap she expects to find when walking into a room and finding the answer to all her prayers.

"Who put it here?" April presses her hand flat against the grate. "I mean — it's just _sitting _here, how do we know it's the real — shit!" Glaring at the spear through the grate, she squeezes her stinging hand into a fist. _Well, there's your answer_, she thinks ruefully.

"What happened?" says O'Neil. She's hovering again, close enough for April to catch a hint of her rank breath. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I asked a stupid question," April replies, inching away. Her fingers are fine, no sign of burns or other injury on them, but they still ache. "Got a stupid answer." _My body will remember _that_, thanks_.

"You — what?"

"It's…complicated," April hedges, tossing O'Neil an apologetic look that clearly has no effect on the other woman. She turns her attention back to the grate, follows its unbroken, unremarkable curve until her eyes hit a dark shape on the far left side. "There — I think that's a lock."

Without waiting for O'Neil to catch up, she takes off at a jog, perversely reassured when the echoes of the pain that had blinded her in the tunnels reassert themselves. It's not bad enough to slow her step, but by the time she reaches the knotted metalwork, she's squinting against the persistent throb in her temples.

The knot looks like a handful of brambles, needle-sharp points gleaming against the rust. If there's a place for a key, she can't see one. Not that a keyhole would be at all useful now — she's got no key, no lockpicks, just her empty hands.

Without thinking, she presses the palm of her hand against the brambles, wincing as they slip under her skin. They're colder than she expected, enough to make her gasp and shiver, and she's ready to pull away and chalk this up to another bad idea when the grate pulses under her hand.

"Do that again," O'Neil whispers. April looks over her shoulder, and sees O'Neil staring not at her but at the spear, her worn features twisted by ferocious hope.

April grits her teeth, and presses her hand harder against the knot. The grate pulses again, but now April feels a gentle sucking at her palm, like a chilly mouth pressed to her skin.

The attrition is slow; it takes at least five minutes before April feels numbness spreading up her arm, and another three pass before her whole body starts to shiver. O'Neil murmurs to herself, barely audible. April looks over her shoulder, and finds O'Neil staring almost blankly at the spear, licking her chapped lips. April turns away, grimacing, disappointed in herself for her disgust. Can't she spare a little more compassion?

Her fingers twitch weakly. Just before the lightheadedness overcomes the pain lingering in her head, the grate goes still, and then crumbles silently into reddish dust. April drops to her knees, cradling her bloody hand in her lap.

"Oh," says O'Neil, her voice warm, musical, like a woman in love. "It's done. It is _done_. The spear is found" She doesn't seem inclined to get it herself, just to stare, like just looking is enough.

On the scale of bad ideas, this was probably one of April's worst, but there's nothing between her and the spear now except a few feet of empty air. She stands up, closing her eyes till her balance comes back. Then, she takes a careful step forward, and another, and another, pausing only when the ground beneath her feet shudders, and the walls groan under a massive weight. The rumbles peel off into the distance, and she takes the last three steps to the spear, hissing as her headache beats in her temples.

April feels the spear's age before she touches it: cold wood, colder iron, the blackened blood grimed into each well and groove. It looks heavy, but when she imagines its weight in her hand, the heaviness doesn't bother her. No, it comforts her. Something this powerful should be heavy.

"God," she whispers. "I can't believe it. This is it."

"Yes," says O'Neil, just as quietly. "This is the spear. They looked for it for so long."

"But it's _here,_" April says, grinning over her shoulder at O'Neil. The spear is real, the Boar can die, and she'll bring this weapon home to her Donnie and stand right next to him as he strikes the killing blow. They're going to win. "It's here, let's grab it and go find Donnie — what?"

O'Neil isn't smiling at her. She just watches, sadder than April can comprehend. "It is too late for me," she says, her voice coming from a long, long way away. "This world is done. But that spear will save yours from being a meal, and all the others after it." Now she tries to smile, the corners of her mouth lifting, but the smile doesn't touch her eyes. "He would be a godkiller," she adds, wistfully, tilting her head slowly. "No one would ever be able to take that away from him. Not even his brothers."

April laughs, a little shaky, a little uneasy. Disgust or not, she doesn't want to leave this version of herself here, in this empty, half-erased maze of a world. She deserves better. She deserves to live. "I think even Raph would agree that being a godkiller is awesome," she says. _Get the spear first. Find a way out. Figure out a way to save O'Neil. Easy, right?_

She brushes her fingers against the haft of the spear. The wood warms under her touch, even as a faint sting pricks her poor battered hand. She almost smiles — pain's her oldest friend here.

"Such a pretty thing," says O'Neil, suddenly at her ear. "And such a pretty, pretty girl."

Her hand cracks into April's right shoulder, too fast for April to turn out of the way. The impact jars through April's entire body, rattling her teeth and throwing her off-balance, but she feels nothing but a vast numbness at first. She stumbles, and the spear tumbles out of her useless hand.

"My —" she says, through a hazy layer of disbelief. And then the pain strikes her, implacable, gleeful _pain_, and she almost misses O'Neil smiling down at her, blue eyes turned ink-black in the golden light. She tries to scream, tries to channel the pain out through her throat and into the air with the force of her cry, but O'Neil lifts her by the throat and throws her across the room.

"My pretty girl, my sweet, luscious girl, you came so _far_," says O'Neil, loping toward her, unhurried, unconcerned. There's no need for either; no one's coming for April here, and they both know it. "You slipped right out of my fingers after your trick but now I have found you again, now I found you and we are going to play. Yes, we will play, until you are just as broken as the first one."

April knows, better than anyone, that no one ever gets used to pain. No matter how times it's felt, pain's always new, and memory's no defense. April blinks back the grey waves at the edge of her vision, and tries to sit up with the wall at her back. Five feet away, the spear lies inert and helpless. If she could just get to it —

A cold line burns its way across her throat. April claps a hand to her throat, feels hot blood well through her fingers, and nearly starts laughing when she sees the rescued shuriken gleaming beside the spear.

_You just had to feel bad, _she thinks, swallowing her laughter. _Just had to pity the monster wearing your face_.

The fact that she hadn't known doesn't comfort her at all. She should have known _better_.

"Do you like this face?" O'Neil asks, tugging its lips into a smile with its fingers. "Such a sweet face, just right for my game, so I saved it all these years, long after she stopped needing it. She tried, she did, she held on till she was dark as stone inside, no light at all, and then I took what was left. All for this. All for _you_, my pretty one."

"Why?" April gasps for breath, focuses through the black spots in her eyes. O'Neil slouches toward her, fingers twitching and her face stretched by a vicious, ugly grin. "You could've — could've killed me when you found me. _Why —"_

She shrieks as O'Neil plants its foot on her broken shoulder. It grinds its heel into the new gap between her bones, grinning down at her with her own face, and laughs when she retches. Then, it drops to its knees next to her, so close matted red hair brushes April's forehead, and licks her face from chin to cheek.

April howls, pain and rage and utter terror fueling the sound as it boils out of her. Not a damn thing in her life has been fair, but this is the most unfair of all — that at the end, she's going to die scared and screaming with the spear just out of arm's reach. She's going to hear her own laugh as she dies.

"Just get it over with," she manages, when she can't scream any longer. "Why wait? Just kill me. Maybe this time it'll stick," she adds, finally meeting O'Neil's eyes.

O'Neil recoils from her, its mouth — even if April lives, she's never going to get over the sight of her own face being worn like a badly-fitting costume — hanging open. "You will not die yet," it says, simply. The thick, rolling cadences of its voice drop away, and April goes completely still. The Boar may wear a human face, but it's not human, and never has been. What meets April's eyes is another form of life, as inescapable as a black hole.

"I want you to feel him die first," it tells her, as it runs its thumb over her cheek. All its hunger is gone; what's left is a vague, patient disinterest. Its voice could freeze electrons in place. "He thinks he goes to kill me, because he carries the spear."

April's eyes flick toward the spear, still lying on the floor nearby. "Then what —" she asks, unable to hold down her curiosity, even now.

"That," says O'Neil, still stroking her cheek, leaning close enough for matted red hair to brush April's face, "is the real spear. I cannot touch it. What Donatello carries is a false hope. He goes to die, and you will feel it. And then, I will fill my mouth with your flesh." It smiles at her, a long line of saliva drooling from its mouth.

"Why?" April whispers, as she pushes past the pain rippling through her, searching for the spark of Donnie's mind. She can warn him — she can stop him. "Why would you —"

O'Neil presses its mouth to her cheek."My tender little girl," it says, against her eye, "despair sweetens the meat."

It bites down, teeth sinking into the apple of her cheek.

April grits her teeth against a scream, even as tears bead along her lashes. The Boar can leave her alive while it swallows her heart, but it doesn't get any more of her pain. She'll die with that much dignity.

And she's going to die. A pathetic, unfair little death, too far away to be of any help.

_Donnie,_ she shouts inside her head. _Don't —_

Silence. The walls rise around her again, just beyond the little knot the Boar's made of their bodies. She can't reach Donnie.

_I'm fucking useless_. Fury crackles through her, driving back the pain — but it's not fury, it's _power_. She may be useless, nothing she's done may ever have mattered, but she's never been helpless.

Her left arm doesn't want to move at first, but she lifts it slowly, funneling all the power moving through her into her palm and fingers.

O'Neil hums against her face, unaware or uncaring, and bites her again, along the line of her jaw. It laughs when she presses her hand to its throat, like it's delighted by her little protest, a delight that ends when April draws in the deepest breath she can, and _shoves_.

Light erupts out of her hand, where the half-forgotten white mark bisects her palm, and she loses herself completely in the flood. She is the flood, all her joys and humiliations pouring out of her, and in the same moment, she is the Boar, a hunger beyond her understanding.

Then she's thrown roughly back into her body, her shoulder still broken and her face burning. She's exhausted, empty as a dead beehive, but O'Neil is halfway across the room, stumbling punch-drunk to its feet, with half the skin on its body shredded away.

"_You_," it slurs, and starts to slouch toward her.

April rolls to her knees, and half-walks, half-crawls to the spear. It burns her hand when she grips it, but what's a little more pain? She can't stand, but that's fine; she'll brace the shaft against the floor.

_You have one chance,_ she tells herself, and turns around.

O'Neil stares at her, the ruined face twisted by pure, childish bewilderment. "You are not the Champion," it says, a tooth rattling loose to the floor. "You cannot use the spear, you filthy stinking fool, you are a meal, not a warrior, you are —"

"I'm holding the damn spear." Her peripheral vision's going grey, and she's so damn cold, she's got a minute left, maybe less. When she coughs, she spits a mouthful of blood to the side. "So come get me."


	25. Part Nineteen

A/N: This chapter includes graphic depictions of violence and minor character death.

* * *

**_Elsewhen._**

_A god lives as a needle pulled through fabric, forever. The dart of the needle and the slow rasp of the thread, the whisper of universes pressed close: the Boar knows all these things, tastes these things as clearly as the blood drying on its teeth, savors them as deeply the dying flesh in its hands. _

_The worlds are very close now. The Boar has spread itself between them, thin as a leaf, but oh, how many mouths it has to eat, how many eyes to see. This world, this grey and dying world, tastes far too much of ash, of bone, to make the few mouthfuls left any kind of pleasure. They are bare sustenance, nothing more, but the Boar knows how long its sleep will be, and no morsels can be disdained. Even the small pulses of grief from the ragged brothers are better than nothing at all. _

_But there are brighter, fuller worlds than this, and the Boar grows ever more eager to reach them. Even as it stands at the head of the courtyard, the Shredder and Karai waiting for its word and an army massed around them, the Boar can see a younger set of brothers standing before it, eyes wide as it pulps their city. Pulps it, and swallows the screams before they can rise over the rumble of collapsing stones. How sweet that world's agony tastes, how bright._

_No crumbs will be left behind. The Boar will devour each world, though it takes centuries, till all is ruin in its footsteps and it curls around itself, to sleep off its great feasting. _

_Look now; he approaches, the beautiful monster, the most precious boy, all grieving power and restraint. The Boar smells him on the wind, tastes the air as it leaves his lungs. Oh, how his footsteps shake the ash from the walls — this world will remember him, long after even the crows are dead. _

_The Boar will remember him, too, long after it cracks his shell like an egg. What sound will he make when he discovers that all he holds is nothing more than smoke and glamour? What sweeter fruit than the breaking of a Champion? _

_The eye of the needle pauses; three worlds touch, and the Boar feels its hunger expand to meet them. One the feast, one the famine — and one that is something else entirely, a morsel of time broken away from all the rest: a prison, for death itself. _

_There, the girl's mind, light on the wing of a dragonfly, and just as fragile. She fights, but not for long. The Boar will savor her at the end, when Donatello's bloody, implacable heart is finally ready to break. _

_Now, it unspools its tongue to taste the last wisps escaping the cooling body at its feet. The brothers' grief foams against its face, but it ignores them. Their time comes, moments from now, but they have been thorns enough in the Boar's feet that it will relish every taste, and not be hurried. _

_But the wisps vanish, gone between one rough scream and the next, and the one-armed brother's soul escapes before its bitter taste falls fully on the Boar's tongue. Muddy ash is yet all it tastes — but no matter, no matter this, there are two more brothers and their frail humans to devour, and it will make a great and filthy show of them. Yes, yes it will — a show worthy of the eyes only the Boar knows are watching. _

Do you see? _it thinks, and hears the reedy voice of its prisoner rise, frantic nattering like a swarm of midges over its skin. How strange and resilient that little beast is, that grief can still so move him to frenzy after so long alone in his prison. _

_His pain has sustained it for decades, and could for decades more, if the Boar so wished — but this world shrivels under its feet, and its feast must begin. _

_It turns its attention from the prisoner and his feeble cries, and looks down at Donatello. He alone has been silent these brief seconds since the one-armed brother's neck snapped so sweetly in its fingers. He alone stares at the Boar, rust-colored eyes reflecting no light. _

_The Boar thinks briefly of the fox, who would sooner gnaw off a trapped leg than surrender to starvation, when Donatello bares his teeth. _

You were almost worthy of me_, it says, too low for anyone to hear. _You could have stood at my side, instead of these puppets. Oh, my sweet boy, I almost pity you_. _

_Karai twitches at the Boar's side, and whines. So small, the thoughts left in her head, all that remain are want and the thirst the Boar planted in her along with its tiny green teeth. The warhounds pain her as they pain the Shredder, but he broke so much earlier than Karai. He is no more than a hollow hive, ruled by the Boar's intent alone. _

_The battle surges; the family's army believes too in this false spear, and their faith carried them along to break like waves upon the sand. They could fight forever, so long as they know a Champion carries the spear. _

_Soon, the warhounds. _

_The one-eyed brother's scream spirals into nothing. His grief is sharpest, the most difficult to tame; the Boar knows it will be the sweetest morsel, and the briefest. The blind brother will be the true meal out of this ragged family, his agony ripened by years of fading hope. _

_Donatello hefts the spear. Seconds from now, he will throw, and he will not miss. Oh, his defiance! It burns like fire coming down a mountain. The Boar has walked on glaciers more easily destroyed than this little beast's will. No will has ever seen his like, nor will again. _

_For all his singularity, Donatello — Champion and Betrayer of two worlds now, how fresh, how luscious! — has not grasped the one constant through all the needle-pierced worlds: only pain and hunger are certainties. Pleasure is a lie, satisfaction is ever-elusive, and the Boar is going to break Donatello open with its bare hands. _

_But first. _

_"Do you hear the wind blow?" it whispers, for the Champion's ears alone. _

_It lets one thought flower, and the Shredder's chest bursts open in a green, howling cloud; Karai strains her leash, body pointed like an arrow — and Donatello, the sweet boy, his faith so fresh, so brittle, calls out as he throws. _

* * *

It takes Donnie three point seven five seconds to swallow his own scream, brace his feet, and aim. His body takes care of most of the work without any input from his brain.

Mike's body slides halfway down the stairs. His face is pressed to the stone; only a faint bruise is visible, high on his cheek, along with a sliver of clear, faded blue.

One second.

It's not Mikey. It's not Mike. This is a body. It is a stopped moment, an end of possibility, and a reason for vengeance.

He sees Mike's freckles, dimmed by age, and he thinks, as the first second flows into the next, of the dusty hot sauce bottle and the shoulder bumps, the clinging, desperate hug, and how none of it matters any longer.

Two seconds.

"Now!" Leonardo sounds like he has a rock on his chest. "Now, Donnie, do it — do it now —"

The Boar's mad smile beams down on them, and deep in its open mouth Donnie sees lights flickering, cold and rotted.

"Do you hear the wind blow?" asks the Boar. Its voice slices through the swell of the battle — the battle they might be winning, if Donnie cared to look. He doesn't. His world's narrowed to the fractured smile in front of him, and to the white, white skin where he's going to bury the spear. The spear hums a note he can almost hear as he plants his feet.

Three seconds.

Karai jerks, then takes the first step down the stairs, smooth as oil, and the Shredder begins to twitch.

He feels his brothers' hands on his shell, pushing him forward. One throw, that's all, and he can go _home_. But he can still see Mike's eye, Mike's limp body and his twisted neck, and he almost falters.

_Remember that, when it comes time to end it. _

"The warhounds!" Casey screams, as the Shredder's body splits apart.

Only one thing left to do. Donnie throws the spear. He doesn't miss.

* * *

_Each dead world behind the Bull has led to this moment. _

_Change does not come easily to the near-immortal, and is impossible for the true gods, the ones who sleep in the black places between worlds, and so the Bull has had to move in increments: a slow subtle shift of fortune, while all around it worlds rise, and fall, and Champions are burned away. _

_There have been so many of them, and now they are all dust on the Bull's tongue. It remembers each cry for help it did not answer, each curse upon its name as the final dark arrived, and then the gentle fall of ash, forever. _

_And now: it comes to the arc of a spear, and a held breath. _

_The Bull makes itself watch as the spear parts the air, gone cold as a grave the moment it leaves Donatello's hand. Now he is the one who blazes, hope and fury and grief gilding his bones through the heavy skin. _

Beautiful, _thinks the Bull, as it watches the futile gesture, the almost-final increment. _

_Here is what no Champion will ever know: they were chosen, but their worlds were chosen first, and not by the Boar. That god is led by hunger alone, which is merely desire with its prettier skins shed, and so long as the lure is tempting enough, it will not question whether or not its choice was its own. _

_The Bull has laid each lure, and waited, with the patience of still water, for the Boar to come and feast. _

_Each dead world behind the Bull has died because the Bull willed it. _

_Every life that ended in a brief flare of panic and horror has been nothing more than a step on a road as long as galaxies; every bright and brimming world has been bait for a hunger that will never know satisfaction. This vast unwinding thread is bloody from end to end, and it has led here, to these mingled worlds. _

_The Boar has fed, and is feeding, its mouth is red and slick and its throat is full of laughter — but it will not feed, it will _not_, if the Bull has judged its Champions right. _

_Champions: slow the realization, and slower still the efforts made. There has always been one, a soul undimmed, unyielding — but why not two? _

_Why not, indeed. _

_While the false spear flies toward the Boar, the Bull turns its eye to the girl — sharp, glittering girl, a mind like shattered glass and a heart like winter — and to the figment of the Boar bearing down upon her. She has reached the end of her hope, and nearly the end of her strength: she bleeds under the skin from a pricked lung that leaves each breath a bubbling rasp. But she too burns, though her eyes blur, and her hand weakens. _

_The Boar's glamour drops to all fours and scrabbles toward her, slavering down its chin, while on the steps the Boar opens its arms and welcomes the spear's arrival. _

_Donatello holds his breath, ready to cheer, though tears burn his eyes and the brothers beside him howl their grief. April drops to both knees, and aims the true spear at the glamour's throat. _

_The Bull feels the spear as if it is its own heart that is pierced, but pain ceased to matter before this world's sun first spat out light and it is too preoccupied to pay attention. _

_Everything comes down to timing; the false spear must be broken, and the true spear will fill the space it leaves behind. These next two seconds are an end, or they are a total slaughter. _

_No blood stains the Boar's robes when the false spear buries itself in its chest. Donatello's aim was true, but there is no blood, and the Bull feels his hope turn to bewilderment, and then to betrayal. _

_"My sweet boy," says the Boar. Its voice is a stone in the Bull's hoof. "Oh, my Donatello, faithful at last. How misplaced, how wrong, this little faith was." As easily as a child chasing away a fly, the Boar pulls the spear from its chest, and snaps the wooden shaft in half. The pieces tumble through the air, striking the dead brother, and clattering down the stairs. _

_"No," says Donatello, too betrayed to yet feel pain. That will come. It has always been coming. Since the light first ignited in the dark reaches of the many universes, there has been pain, and there has been hunger. Beyond these two things, there are no constants. _

_Two seconds. Long enough for mortal lungs to draw breath to cry out. Long enough for that cry to be buried under a tide-turn in the battle, as the Boar unleashes its puppets and the ragged little family is torn apart. _

_Donatello sees it all happen. Again. The Boar's command keeps him apart from the slaughter: no hand nor weapon may touch him, for he must be a witness. This is how the Boar answers defiance, and it will keep Donatello's eyes open the whole time. He tries to fight the control — of course he does, he knows nothing else — but the Boar has had these many eons to perfect its tricks, and Donatello's muscles betray him. _

_The Bull could close his eyes, but there is no time for mercy. It waits, feels the welling-up of agony through the Champion's body, and watches with him. _

* * *

Leonardo dies first. He's a fraction of a second too slow to parry Karai's first blow, and she opens his leg from knee to hip. It might be suicide, it might simply be exhaustion; the result's the same. He's dead, he's been dead since Mike's body hit the stairs, and all he can do with the time he has left is to throw himself between the Boar's warriors and the Champion. She uses her blade, and when Leonardo says her name, she uses her nails.

* * *

Casey dies in pieces. The only human who could match the turtles hit for hit goes down swinging, just like he promised himself he would, and he doesn't stop until he's gnawed to bare bones. The warhounds remember the taste of his flesh from another world, and fight for more. He doesn't scream. He doesn't surrender. And he still dies.

* * *

Alice dies when Karai's blade meets the stones, her heart threaded like a jewel on the shining steel. A long time ago, she promised herself she'd save her parents' faces for this moment, but when Karai twists the blade, there's only a slight, stinging pain, and nothing. There's nothing. There's

* * *

Raphael dies last, and if voices could break stone, his would flatten the city. He screams till his throat is raw, and doesn't stop until what's left of the Shredder crushes his shell. But Donnie still needs him, Donnie's still alive, even if everyone else is gone, so Raphael tries to stand - and when that fails, he tries to crawl. He's almost touched Alice's hand when that booted foot grinds down harder, and his heart gives one last beat and stops.

* * *

_A few lives, nothing more. To the Bull, they weigh no more than a snowflake. They melt away into the unknowable silence, and to its faint surprise, the Bull almost envies them. Their wish has been granted: they no longer fear. They may even be together. _

_That is no comfort to the few who yet live, and to the one who watches. _

_Donatello sees it all, as it was in his dreaming vision, and he can stop nothing. They die, the world dies, and then the Boar turns to him, smiling, victorious once more. _

No,_ says the Bull. _Not yet. _It turns its eye to the prisoner at the base of the spire. His time has come. _

* * *

It's hard to decide what hurts most, but April's sure a punctured lung will be what kills her, if the blood leaking out of her mouth is any sign. Something necessary broke when she hit the wall, and every minute she stays upright and moving is just guaranteeing she won't be walking out of here.

O'Neil — April knows it's the Boar, or a piece of it, but it's easier this way — scuttles toward her like a crab, mad black eyes gleaming. It could take her in a heartbeat, and they both know it, but they also both know that's not the Boar's style. Even if this is just a piece of the Boar, the tiniest filament of its power jammed into a skin that looks like her, April knows it's still going to play with her before it kills her.

And it's going to play for a long, long time.

_Maybe it's a good thing I'm so messed up_.

If she's lucky, O'Neil will wait just a few seconds too long, and she'll bleed out before it can get its teeth in her. Doesn't even have to be that much luck, just two seconds' worth.

April tries to track O'Neil's movement so she can keep the spear trained in the right direction, but just keeping herself from flopping over like a boned fish takes all the energy she has left. She used up the last of her power blasting O'Neil across the room — probably did more harm than good, but really, what's a little more harm at this point? — and pain's rushed in to fill the gaps. Everything that's not burning aches, right down to the spaces between her fingers, and the leak of blood has turned into a thick gush.

O'Neil barks a laugh, and scratches its nails into the ground. "He failed, he failed, he failed," it chants at her. "Sweet Donatello, he failed, the false spear failed him, he watched them die, he watched —"

"Who?" April coughs. A dank taste rattles up her throat and she sounds like she's talking through a mouthful of slush, but she's way past being embarrassed about it now. All that's left is pain.

Another laugh. O'Neil's face twists in a smile, and April surprises herself by finding a little room left for hate — and anger. That's _her_ face, not the Boar's.

"All of them," it replies. "It watched them _all_ die."

_Donnie._ April grips the spear again, a last dying ember of fury racing through her. She can live a little longer, just out of spite. Just a little longer.

Time to talk.

"What did you do with the real April?" she manages, right before something shifts inside her chest and something hot and cruel as acid starts to spread through her belly. "You're not —" She stops before she finishes the question, because she can handle almost anything, but knowing if the Boar is wearing her double's dead body might just be what breaks her.

She can't break yet. Not while she can still hold the spear, not while there's a chance Donnie could —

O'Neil cocks its head, malice replaced by faint bemusement. "My sweet girl," it says, "I cannot remember." It laughs, delighted with itself, then gives its body a shake. "But she is dead," it adds, the pink tip of its tongue dancing over its lips. "I remember that, how it felt, how _hungry_ she was, how shriveled and cold and —"

"Fuck off!" April yells. She barely notices the blood spattering her hands. She remembers, too: the dull eyes, the paper-thin skin over hollow cheeks, the calm acceptance. And she rejects it, all of it, in her own name and in the name of the woman who died wearing her face, the one who chose to go quietly, curled on her side in a metal cage. "Just go to _hell_."

A shaft of dim confusion passes over O'Neil's face. "You asked, pretty girl," it replies, one finger tapping slowly against the ground. "And now you die."

"You keep saying that," April spits. Just keep it talking a little longer. "I'm not dead yet." She props the base of the spear against the ground, and tucks it against her side. At least now it won't roll away if she collapses, which isn't really an _if_ anymore, but a _when_. An imminent one.

O'Neil glances at the spear, and snorts. The sound burrows into April's head, makes her think of earth churning beneath razor-sharp hooves. "You cannot kill me." Its voice expands to fill the room, till the pressure makes April's ears pop. "You are no Champion."

_I know_, April thinks, before the voice shreds the last pain-free parts of her brain. She feels O'Neil's footsteps as it approaches — from the side, where she can't reach it with the spear — and she can't force her body to move. Dead, she's dead, eaten alive and dead forever.

_Hope I'm not out of spite yet,_ she thinks, so light-headed she nearly laughs. Of course she's not; being pissed and wanting to take it out on someone else is the one thing she'll always have in abundance.

She just has to wait till O'Neil comes in close.

O'Neil launches itself at April, a blur of red and grey moving too fast to track. She's going to miss, she's not going to make a killing blow. For fuck's sake, she can't even throw the spear —

_Do I have to?_

April's never been the one to land that final blow, has she? All she has to do is what she's always done: make her enemies _bleed_, so the turtles can finish them off.

_Be the knife in the dark. _With the last ounce of strength left in her body, April pivots to follow O'Neil's path, and drives the spear into O'Neil's gut.

It's no graceful killing blow. O'Neil grunts and exhales a lungful of hot, swampy air in April's face, languidly digging its fingernails into her bad shoulder, but April lets herself collapse, pushing the spear forward.

O'Neil snaps its teeth and spits in her face, but April shoves the spear another inch deeper, relishing how easily the skin gives under just a little pressure.

The wasp stings in her left hand vanish, and the spear shudders once. For a few seconds, they're connected, the god and the mortal, by a few feet of ancient wood and metal.

"You?" says O'Neil, a thin drool of black water dribbling over its lips. "_You?_"

What happens next is intolerable: a torrent of sensation and memory, a hunger too vast for her mind to comprehend, and a life too long to experience without going mad. April shuts her eyes, and opens them again in a courtyard, her body wrapped in white silk and her feet bare on cold stone, and two feet away is Donnie, grey-skinned but breathing, and nothing but hate radiating out of his eyes.

"Impossible," says the Boar, and April feels the word rise from her own throat as the pain splinters through her side.

Then she's back in her own dying body, the hunger gone, watching O'Neil stagger backwards with a hand clamped over its belly.

* * *

The Boar is close enough to touch him. Before it hooks its finger under his chin, Donnie tries to pull away, but the Boar just twitches its hands and every muscle locks down again.

Every damn muscle except his heart, and the Boar wants that one to keep moving.

"I want you to see what you did to them," says the Boar. It strokes his mouth, so near its breath warms his throat. "It was all for you, my treasure. They all died for you. Now _look at them._"

The last three words twist the space between them. Donnie tries to breathe, but the air's too heavy, too slow, and only the light dancing inside the Boar's mouth can escape.

_Look._

It doesn't matter that he's seen this before. The blood pooling under Alice's body, the inches between her hand and Raphael's, these things fill his world, and when he tries to look away, he can't. The Boar holds him still with a spectral hand wrapped around his spine, and it keeps his eyes open till they burn and water.

Leonardo's mask flutters from Karai's hand. She doesn't move, and neither does the Shredder's body. They wait, watching him stare at their work without emotion, or even interest. They're just inert, waiting for the Boar's next command.

The only mercy in this moment is that he's too cold to feel anything at all. Rage, grief, despair, they're all out of his reach. He feels the wind, he feels the Boar pressing its body against his, and that's it. There is no more.

Alice was right, in the end: he wasn't anything more than a trick, a sliver of hope and light that filled their world and then helped to crush it. And he believed, truly _believed,_ he could save them.

The wind sings in his ears.

A false spear for a false Champion. He could choke on it — but the Boar won't let him. No, Donnie knows he's alive until the Boar wants him to die, and until then, it's going to enjoy every drop of his pain.

"All for you," the Boar whispers. It digs its fingers into the soft skin under his chin, not quite hard enough to cut. "They all die for you, my brave beautiful boy, they all die." Its other hand fastens on his shoulder, squeezing, kneading. "Do you feel it, do you, do you _smell_ how they die, a whole world dead and all for you, for _you_ and your little spear —"

It smothers its laughter against his throat. Donnie's body jerks, instinctual revulsion breaking his paralysis for an instant, but the hand on his spine tightens till he gasps, and he's frozen again.

"You are mine now," the Boar whispers. "My little Champion. I told you, I promised you, come with me and I would let them live, even the girl, even her, that ripe tender girl, but now, now _now_ no, you watched them once and you will watch them again, watch them with me —" Its claws pierce his skin, and now he smells his own blood, mingling with all the others. Leonardo's flat black gaze stares back at him, pitiless, while the Boar keeps talking, its voice a mad rising spiral.

"Do you know how she tasted in the end, do you know, my Donatello?" The Boar laughs again. "So young, skin like a peach, blood like honey in my mouth, and she cried when I bit her — look at me, look at me, I want to see your face when I tell you this —"

The Boar tries to drag his head down so their eyes meet, but some scrap of defiance rises out of the vast flat numbness filling his body, and Donnie holds his ground. As hard as the Boar tugs, as deep as its claw bury themselves in his flesh, he does not move, and he does not look.

"_Donatello_." The Boar's voice is a swarm of wasps in his ears. "_Look at me._"

Opening his mouth takes all his strength; that same massive will that rose to block him back home, laughing whenever he tried to find his way, is pressing down on him from all angles, thick enough to smother him, but he can do this much for the family he failed. Every muscle creaking, his tongue as heavy as lead, he inhales once.

"No," he manages, and keeps his eyes on Leonardo.

The Boar shrieks. Its mouth splits wide open, and its skin peels away like old paint, baring the web of light inside its head to the edge of his vision. The sound stops his heart for a beat, and another, and Donnie waits, ready for the bolt that strikes him down.

It never comes. The Boar shrieks again, and throws back its head — and then it stumbles back, hands pressed to its side. Donnie tears his eyes away from Leonardo long enough to see a black stain spreading under the Boar's hands.

"You?" it hisses. "_You?_ Impossible."

He's still enough himself to think _I didn't do anything_, but the Boar's eyes are fixed past him. For an instant, he no longer exists for the Boar — but its gaze comes back to his, hard and cold above the white web of light in its mouth.

"There has never been _two_," it whines. "Never, never, there cannot be —"

The Boar vanishes before Donnie can take a full breath. The ghostly hand around Donnie's spine lets go so abruptly he drops to his knees. It leaves him in the courtyard, alone with the high crazy song of the wind, and the silent bodies tumbled all around him.

* * *

"Impossible," says O'Neil. More black water drips through its fingers. "There has never been two, never, never, there cannot be, you are just — just _food_ —"

April lets herself collapse onto her side. Fine, she's just food, but she held on long enough to make the Boar bleed. That's something she can be proud of. And she got to see Donnie, for just a moment. He's still alive.

She keeps her eyes open long enough to watch O'Neil's body split apart. There's nothing inside the skin but the black water, as thick as pond scum. April inches away from the flood, but the black water rolls toward her, moving like liquid mercury, and seeps through her shirt and hair in seconds.

It smells like rotted wood and jasmine, strong enough to make her stomach churn, but any real power is gone. A bad smell won't kill her, though it'll make her last few seconds miserable.

_But it worked_, she tells herself. She still has the spear clenched in her good hand. It should hurt to hold the spear so tightly, but if it does, she doesn't feel it any longer. Probably a bad sign. The only thing she can feel is the creeping cold on her scalp and chest as the black water freezes against her skin. Cold is fine. She can deal with cold. It's not any worse than patrolling during the winter.

Yes, it is worse — because patrolling means _home_, and it means _family_. April swallows a mouthful of blood, too weak to spit it out, and stares up at the ceiling. Patrolling meant Donnie, just a few feet away. It meant keeping the city safe for when her dad could finally come home.

It doesn't mean anything anymore.

The light is fading, little by little, and the air around her has begun to cool. April tries to worry about it — maybe panic will get her off the ground, one last burst of energy to get the spear closer to Donnie — and discovers she's empty. Not scared, not tired, not worried about what comes next. Just quiet, inside and out.

She's got to wake up. Got to do more than lie down in her blood and the black water and wait for death to come get her. Donnie's alive, and that means there's still a chance for the spear to find its way to him — but for that to happen, she's got to get up.

April digs her heels into the ground and tries to push, but her legs flop over, the muscles loose as unskeined yarn, and she stays right where she is.

"Get up," she whispers. When she opens her eyes, the golden light has dimmed to barely a candle flame. She can barely see her left hand when she holds it in front of her face. The white mark might still be there, but she can't be sure.

_Get up, dammit. He needs the spear. _

Why does she believe, so strongly, that if she just holds on long enough, everything will be okay? This isn't a fairy tale, and there won't be a last-minute rescue. The lights will go out, she'll go to sleep, and sometime after that she'll stop breathing. End of story.

She still believes. She can get up.

Her eyes close.

Without any way to mark the passage of time past her own uneven pulse, April lets the darkness carry her into a light doze. She doesn't expect to wake up; her part in the story is done, except as a prop to get the next act going.

_Figures_, she thinks, a dying scrap of sarcasm floating up through the cold.

Which is why it's a complete surprise when new light bursts over her, and rough hands cradle her head as gently as an egg.

"April, it's time to let go," says a familiar voice. Before she can place it, the floor beneath her disappears, and she's falling again, forever, into the silent spaces between worlds.

* * *

_It has waited so long for this moment, the Bull muses, and moved so many pieces that each individual has ceased to weigh on its consciousness. It has forgotten multitudes, and will forget multitudes more — but it will not forget this: the prisoner's face as he sees the girl. _

_How strange, the things that transcend universes. Half a lifetime has passed since the prisoner felt anything like kindness, but he is unspeakably gentle as he kneels beside the girl._

_She is not the one the prisoner lost. That one is gone forever. The prisoner knows this — and yet, the Bull knows it does not matter. For this moment, she is the last bright thing in the universe. _

_For a long, silent moment, the prisoner does not speak. He merely watches the faint play of light over her features, his fingers not quite touching her throat. _

_"She will be safe," says the Bull, into the gulf of silence between itself and the prisoner. "I gave my word that the young ones would be safe, if you did your part." _

_"If they lived," says the prisoner. "Always the conditional." His voice breaks, and he lowers his head over the girl's. He may be whispering to her, but the Bull does not let itself listen. _

_"You knew the price," it says, when the prisoner at last lifts his head. His eyes glitter in the near-dark, but the Bull does not mistake that shine for tears alone. It is anger, and hate, both well-deserved and long-expected. "This world was doomed, but through you, I might save all those to come. The Champions —" _

_"I didn't know I would have to _watch_," the prisoner spits. "Did you? Did you know I would see everything? Even when A —" He stops himself, head thrown back and throat vibrating with a keen not allowed to be voiced. "My brothers," he says, his body trembling with the finest of shivers. "My _brothers_. I'm so sorry. I should have stayed —" His voice shatters, he gasps once, and falls silent. _

_He is so young, this prisoner, though all the sights the Boar has shown him have aged him beyond repair. _

_Not just the Boar; the Bull must claim its part in this. It allowed the Boar to play its fevered games. It let this world die, in increments, and there is no merciful reply to the prisoner's question. The Bull does not even make the attempt. _

_After a long, stony silence, the prisoner turns back to the girl. He would stay here with her until this world disintegrates, and they both know it, just as they both know he cannot. There is one duty left to the prisoner, before he can rest. _

_"It is time," the Bull says, when it seems the prisoner will not speak at all. Time may not move in this dead, safe-keeping place, but it moves elsewhere, and the final blow must be struck. While they linger here, the Champion cries out in a dead world, separated by a thin veil of molecules and intent. He needs the spear. _

_"I know," says the prisoner. His hands shake, but he stills them almost at once. He has learned control over these many years of watching, till not even grief can break him. "Just — one more look." _

_ Distantly, for it thinks of such things rarely, it occurs to the Bull that love may be the strangest of all. It can be twisted so easily into contempt, or hunger — one needs only look to Karai for proof, or the Shredder — or it may endure, till fire and terror forge it into a shield against all weapons. _

_If only the Boar had learned such a lesson — but then it would not be itself, and the Bull would not be standing here, the weight of all its manipulations settling over its shoulders. _

_"Now," it says. There are other worlds to consider, and to show mercy now would betray them all. _

_The prisoner makes no sound, merely closes his eyes. He inhales, holds the breath, and releases it slowly. Then: _

_"April, it's time to let go," he says. _

_The girl makes no noise or protest when the prisoner pulls the spear from her hand. She is half-dead already, broken and covered with the filth of the Boar's wight, but enough strength remains. The journey will not kill her. _

_"I promised you," says the Bull. "She will be safe. As much as I can make her. Now, _move_. The Champion comes." _

_It regrets using a command on one who has obeyed it so completely, but the prisoner still has not moved. When the Bull's voice cracks through the room, he groans, body twisting involuntarily to follow the Bull's order, and rises with the spear gripped clumsily in one hand. By the time he has gotten to his feet, the girl's body is translucent, little more than a suggestion of form in the cold, near-lightless air. And then, she is gone._

_The prisoner sighs. "You couldn't even let him see her?" he asks, head low. _

_The Bull does not respond. Instead, it points to the ceiling, where a thin line of light bisects the ancient stone. _

_"He comes," it tells the prisoner. "When you have finished, you are free. Your reward waits for you outside the spire." _

_The prisoner laughs, bitter, dry as a sand. "I hope you're not expecting me to thank you," he says, and lifts his head to the growing light. _

_"I never have," says the Bull, and folds into itself. _

_One increment yet remains. _

* * *

Casey's a ride or die city boy, which means he still jumps ten feet whenever he hears a coyote up at the farmhouse. It's about fifty times worse at the temple where Usagi dropped them. At least at the farmhouse you could hear Donnie blowing things up in the Science Barn or Mikey communing with his chickens along with all the local wildlife — here, it's just the wind through the grass and babbling brooks and all that crap. Nobody talks above a whisper here, nobody really even _talks_, and that, along with being stuck in bed being _scourged of evil_, means Casey Jones is about to lose his freaking mind.

"I hate this," he says for the fifteenth time in the last day. He's pretty sure no one's listening to him anymore, and he can't really blame them, but god, does he hate this. He's in a comfy bed, eating good food — the temple doesn't half-ass the menu, that's one check in the plus column — with all his cuts and bruises bandaged and the last of the Boar's warhounds getting cleaned out of his system, and Raph and his bros are…

He grinds his fists into his eyes. Going down that road's a bad idea, but he can't help it. There's not enough to distract him here from thinking about what happened to Red or how he ditched Raph — because that's what it was, even if Leo gave the order. Casey still walked away.

"Shit," he says. "Shit, shit, shit."

Splinter shifts, opens his mouth like he's about to say something comforting like he did the first hundred times, but Casey turns on his side, face to the wall. He doesn't want to be comforted, especially not by the rat-dad, who's probably feeling just as crappy as he is. Their world's ending, or maybe it's already over, and they'll never know.

When the worst of the burning in his chest is gone, he rolls over on his back. His bad side aches, but it's a good clean ache. The priest finally smiled when he took a look at the wound today, so maybe Casey will finally get a chance to get the hell out of the infirmary tomorrow. Go poison himself with fresh air and sunshine.

"Where's Angel?" he asks.

"She is in the garden," Splinter replies, clearly grateful Casey's not spoiling for a fight. "She is helping with the new irrigation system."

"Awesome for her," Casey says, stamping down on his jealousy. They've been here almost five days, and he hasn't gone outside once since they hauled him into the infirmary. But there's a reason for that, and no reason for Angel to suffer along with them. "Poor kid," he adds, with feeling, because however bad this sucks for him, he signed up for this weirdness a long time ago. Angel didn't.

Splinter hums in agreement, then goes back to his meditating or whatever. Casey listens to the wind whistle through the chinks in the wall, pulls threads out of his blanket, and tries to decide if he's bored enough to go back to sleep. Outside, the little wild lizards peep at each other, and something heavy hits the gravel path. Probably someone's pack — maybe Usagi's back from wherever he buzzed off to when they got home, which at least means a damn change —

Someone shouts in surprise and alarm, and two doors slam outside the infirmary. Splinter looks up sleepily, ears pricked forward. Casey pushes up on his elbows, just in time to watch two of the novices sprint past, carrying a stretcher between them.

"What the hell," Casey murmurs, as new voices join in with the shouting, and more doors slam. He can only catch every third word or so — _gate, sky, bandages — _but the high tense voices don't need any translation. With a glance back at Splinter, he heaves himself out of bed, pulls on his shirt, and heads for the door.

A few torches along the wall light his way as he follows the voices. He gets turned around a few times and ends up back at the infirmary before he finally gets to the front door — right when Angel does, her hands and faced dirt-smudged.

"I heard yelling," she says, shoving her hair out of her eyes. "Is everyone okay? Are we —"

"I dunno," Casey says as he pushes open the door. "Guess we'll find out soon enough."

Outside, it's almost dusk, the sky covered by dark scudding clouds and lit at the horizon by distant lightning. The novices and the priest have their backs to Casey and Angel, hiding whatever they're looking at, but Casey sees a pair of black boots and long skinny legs splayed on the gravel.

"Oh my god." He stumbles down the stairs, heart thudding so hard he's dizzy, and pulls the novices away. They fall back, shouting with surprise, and the priest whirls on him with a scolding finger in his face. Casey shoves past them and crouches down as the first roll of thunder echoes overhead.

Black water soaks her hair and clothes. There's blood soaking through her armor, too, so much goddamn blood Casey's nose is full of its smell, something took a chunk out of her cheek, and her right arm just flops to the side — but April's breathing, eyelids fluttering.

"Red," Casey whispers, reaching out to touch her head. The priest slaps his hand away, and glares back when Casey glowers at him.

"She cannot be touched," the priest hisses. "She has been tainted — she must be scoured. Leave her to us."

April makes a rattling noise in her throat, and opens her eyes. They're so bloodshot Casey can't see any whites at all. "Casey," she chokes. Tears bead along her lashes, and Casey just wants to grab her hand and squeeze — something so he can help push away that horrible, desperate look on her face. "Did he get it? Did Donnie get the spear? I had it —"

"We have to get her inside," the priest shouts, over another burst of lightning and thunder. The wind's turned, and all the leaves are twisting. "Please, let us help her!"

"Don't touch me!" April yells, her voice cracking. She grabs his wrist with her good arm and squeezes till the bones ache. The novices try to get her to lie still, but she bares her teeth, eyes rolling, and yanks on his arm. "Did he get it? Is it done? Casey?"

"I —" The novices slide the stretcher under April's back. Her face constricts in pain, but she doesn't look away from Casey. He swallows hard, his mouth dry and sour. "Red, I don't know."

The first drops of rain hit the gravel. April screams.


	26. Part Twenty

A/N: This chapter includes minor character death references and graphic violence.

* * *

**_Elsewhen._**

The only sound left in the world is Donnie's ragged breathing. He doesn't know how long it's been since the screaming stopped, but the weak sunlight doesn't fall on his shell anymore, so he assumes the planet's still turning and time's still marching forward.

But in the absence of sound, it's easy to imagine nothing has changed or will change ever again, and that if he stops breathing, then silence will swallow the entire world. After what he heard a few minutes or hours ago, would total silence be the worst thing?

Of course it wouldn't be the worst thing, he's _seen_ the worst thing, the worst thing is spread all around him like the petals of a flower, like the way Casey's chest is —

He tries to hold in the sob, but it leaks out, high and reedy, through his teeth. It rings in his ears, long after the actual vibrations in the air have ended, so Donnie presses his face to the stone to try and muffle the echoes. It's bitterly cold against his skin, but after a few minutes he starts to go numb, and that's even better than the silence.

That's where he stays until his stomach sends up a plaintive rumble. And then he remembers Mike handing around the dusty hot sauce bottle, and hates himself so savagely his entire body shakes.

Donnie knows he has to get up. He can't stay here, whining into the stones while bodies cool all around him, but getting up means seeing the scope of his failure, every bloody inch of it.

The _how_ of the spear came to Leonardo and the others doesn't matter. Donnie's sure it's a wonderful story — a grand battle that defied all reason and took every bit of their skills, because they would have known if the price paid wasn't high enough — but the spear was a fake, and he didn't figure it out. It just felt so warm, so solid in his hands, and he had _believed_ that it could be over that easily.

How could he have forgotten the lessons he's spent his whole life learning? It's never that easy, and he doesn't win. But he _did_ forget, just long enough to doom everyone.

Alice was right, in the end. He was just a trick.

"I'm sorry," he says, finally lifting his head. It's going to hurt, it's going to destroy him, to look at what he's done, but whatever else he is now, he's not a coward. And looking is the only thing he can do for them.

The setting sun sends weak rays between the buildings, just enough light for Donnie to make out the familiar faces and bodies all around him. Past that first ring of the dead, the bodies blur into a vast, grey accretion, with only a bruised face or bloody hand here and there distinguishable from the rest.

It's so quiet his head aches. Donnie turns in a slow circle, memorizing the outermost rings first, the broken machinery mingled with equally broken bodies, and then drawing inward, until all that's left is the family at his feet.

They fought and hoped so long, and their faces show only the agony of their last few minutes. Just like his vision, all those weeks ago.

Karai and the Shredder lie, empty-eyed, at the base of the spire. The broken pieces of the spear lie on the stairs, mutely accusing.

He should do something, Donnie tells himself. Cover them, somehow, give them a little privacy — but who's going to spy on this graveyard?

"It's all over," he whispers. "They're all…"

Leo, Mikey, Raph: he's never going to see them again. He vanished out of their lives, and destroyed them just as utterly as he destroyed this world and this family. Maybe that's what the other Donnie did — maybe he followed the Bull too, and got tricked, and then his world slowly fell apart until Donnie showed up, to repeat the cycle.

Donnie's stomach churns, and even though there's nothing in it, he retches until he's breathless and gasping for air, bile searing his mouth. He can smell the blood on the air now, sweet and too-rich, the iron tang sinking into his sinuses. So much of it, drying on the stones. It'll never wash away.

_I did this I killed them I did this it's my fault I didn't fix it kill me a thousand times it won't make up for not fixing it_

He promised to save them but they still died, exactly the way he knew they would. If he opens his eyes, he'll see Raphael's face tilted up to the sky with his mouth hanging open, his hand just a few inches from Alice's. Behind them, halfway up the stairs, will be Mike, just a collection of bones and limp muscle hanging at wrong angles. Leonardo is out of sight, but Donnie doesn't need to see him to know what he looks like, skin grey and dry and just as tattered as his coat because all his blood's drying on the stones, red to brown to black, and it's going to stay there forever, just like Casey will stay there with his chest burst open like a flower, they're dead and so is everyone around him, he's the only one left because in the end he couldn't save anyone and that's what he'll see, forever, all the bodies of the people who believed he could fix this and who died to get him here.

He doesn't hear anything except one breath, and then another, and another, the last lonely sound in a dead world. In and out, in and out.

A soft noise — like a sigh, but from no living mouth — floats down the stairs. His training asserts itself instantly, a knife through his grief; he reaches for his bo, and startles when he doesn't see a person, but a door sliding open at the base of the spire. It gapes open, a toothless mouth leading down to a black and silent throat — an invitation, from another survivor of this dim and silent world.

How he knows that isn't clear, but he knows.

His little burst of adrenaline fades almost immediately, and he's too numb, too exhausted, to feel much curiosity. But there's nothing he can do here, nothing left he can ruin, so Donnie climbs the stairs, slowly, with his head bowed, and doesn't look back until he reaches the door.

The air flowing out is rank, faintly clammy, and familiar. It smells like the way home. Donnie lingers on the threshold for a few seconds, just breathing in that smell, and then looks back over his shoulder. The last thing he sees before he steps inside is those few inches between Raphael's hand and Alice's.

The door slides shut behind him, as silently as it opened, and the sun sets on the world for the last time.

* * *

There's nothing inside the spire; the inner walls are just as smooth and featureless as the outer ones, with the same diffuse glow filling the empty space. The spire's base is as wide as a football field, and it tapers to a needle-fine point a few hundred feet over his head.

Donnie takes it all in with a single glance. Because there's nothing else for him to do, and no other doors appearing to guide him onward, he starts walking toward the center of the spire, straining to hear his footsteps in the hush.

He walks for five minutes before he figures out that he's no closer to the center of the spire than he was when he started. There's still just enough light to see by, and the ground's still a total blank, but the wall behind him keeps receding with every step. It's getting larger the farther inward he travels.

_One more trick_, Donnie thinks, but doesn't say — the thought of filling the growing space with words unnerves him — and forces himself to stop. If this is one last trick of the Boar's, he's played right into it. It was phenomenally stupid to come in here at all. Just because it smelled like home doesn't mean it's _safe_, or _right_. After all, isn't blind trust what got him here to begin with?

He shrinks into himself again, stung by the venom in his own thoughts, and feels the gibbering panic start to creep through him again. _I did this I did this I killed them all — _

"Peace in the particulars," he murmurs, so the words won't carry past him — but what the hell particulars are there, here? Everything's smooth as an eggshell. There's nothing for him to hold onto.

_I could let go,_ says the last coherent thought in his head. What's stopping him from going crazy? It's done. He's not going home and he's not going to win. The story ends with the Champion alone, in a quiet room, with two worlds dying around him.

_I did this I failed I didn't fix it and Alice made a noise like she was trying to cry and I did that — _

Donnie takes another step, and he keeps breathing. He won't stop. He can't. As long as he's still breathing, still walking, there's a possibility he'll find a way home.

_You always do,_ says April. In Donnie's mind, she smiles, and tosses her hair out of her eyes. He can't bring himself to shut the door on her face, or on the faces that follow. His brothers, and Casey; Usagi, Splinter, Jenny, Angel. They pierce him, one by one, and fade away, until the only face left is April's. Donnie closes his eyes for just a second, just to savor the way light streaks her hair with golden, and nearly stumbles as the floor opens under him.

The light wasn't just in his head; it's flowing out of a hole in the floor, drenching him in its warmth. Two inches away from his toes is a staircase, the stones smooth and sand-colored, leading down into the light. Another invitation.

Donnie hesitates. Light doesn't indicate safety, or escape, or goodness. He could be about to stumble into the biggest trap of all — the Boar has a thousand little torments, just waiting for him to blunder in — but it's the stairs, or going back to walking the spire.

_Not much of a choice_.

The longer he stares into the light, the more he's aware of faint aches in his knuckles and shoulders, and the warning pulse of a migraine in the back of his head. Nothing he hasn't felt a thousand times before, but the pain's such a sharp contrast to the steady warmth of the spear — the _fake_ spear, he reminds himself, viciously — that he welcomes it.

_Trust the pain_. It sounds like something Leo would say, after training for ten hours straight, until even Donnie's eyelids were sore, and Donnie feels a small, strained smile start to pull at his mouth.

"Worth a try," he murmurs, and takes the first step. The aches in his hands sharpen as he descends, and the migraine spreads into his temples, but it's perversely reassuring. It's a warning, not a lure.

He's gone down twenty steps when he catches the scent of home again, mud and slime and trash and worse, the kind of smell that clings to cold, wet walls and that you're never sure is gone completely, no matter how many times you shower. Homesickness overwhelms the pain in his hands and head for a brief moment.

The smell occupies so much of his attention that he doesn't notice the light increasing till it nearly blinds him. By the time he hits the last stair, he's shielding his eyes with one hand and balancing himself against the wall with the other. And still the light sears his eyes, goading the pain in his head to go higher, higher, until he's so dizzy he just drops to his knees at the base of the stairs.

The light recedes so abruptly it leaves him nauseated and twice as dizzy as before. Donnie cracks one eye open. He's in another huge room, but this one he recognizes: the old sewer thoroughfare, its far end bordered by a high iron grate. A door stand open on one side, but if anything had been kept inside, it's long gone now.

The thoroughfare's almost as empty as the spire above him. A black puddle spreads across a few feet of floor, with what might be blood spattered beside it, as well as on a nearby wall.

The echo of violence reassures him as much as the pain. Someone was here, not too long ago. He isn't alone.

Before he can remind himself he doesn't deserve any reassurance after what he did, someone clears their throat nearby. It's a small, polite sound, meant to get attention but not startle, but Donnie grabs for his bo anyways.

When he turns, a beaten, weary version of his own face smiles at him from across the room.

_Trick, _screams a thin, cynical voice. _Run, it's a trick_. It keeps screaming that till a new surge of pain crests in Donnie's hands, and he nearly drops his bo. The migraine slithers toward the front of his head, but it's tolerable. For now.

"That's good," says his double. "You're learning to trust the pain." A limp, colorless cape shrouds everything but his head, where an equally-colorless mask is wrapped around his eyes. The eyes aren't any different from Donnie's, though; a deep russet, brown in some lights, blood-red in others. Monster's eyes.

Donnie clenches his hands around his bo, stamping down on the pain. Try as he might, he can't think of anything to say to the figure slowly pacing toward him.

"There's not much time left here," says the other Donnie. "I wanted to talk to you, before you left."

"Before I —" Donnie shakes himself — a bad idea, because his migraine makes his brain feel like it's sloshing around inside his skull. He doesn't shut his eyes, even when his vision blurs, and stays focused on the vague blur five feet ahead of him. "Where's the Bull sending me now? Some other nightmare? One more stop along the —"

"It's sending you back." The other Donnie's voice is filled with longing, so sharp Donnie tastes blood on the air. "You played your part, I played mine. We all did. And now you get to go _home_." He pushes the cape over his shoulders, and holds out a long, thin measure of wood. "It's time to end it."

Donnie backs away, horrified by the spear in the other Donnie's hands. "How do I —" he starts to ask, then shuts his mouth on the rest of the question. He already knows the answer, doesn't he? That whole walk through the light while his head and hands felt like they were on fire? A far more eloquent lesson than words could manage: _trust the pain_.

"It'll hurt," says his double. "It's going to hurt like hell. But it already does, right?" He quirks a smile, the twin to Leonardo's, unbearably sweet, eternally sad. "Don't apologize," he adds, when Donnie starts to do that exact thing. "I…I already know."

Of course he does. The how doesn't matter; no matter how far away they are, Donnie will know when his brothers die.

"What happened to you?" he blurts out, because his curiosity will be the last part of him that dies. "I mean — you don't have to answer, I'm —"

"It couldn't be killed while it was here, and in your universe," comes the answer. "It's too spread out. You have to kill all of it, or it keeps feeding, and keeps coming back. That's why all the other Champions failed. They killed a piece, but not its heart." He meets Donnie's gaze, holds it. His eye sockets are bruised almost black. "Increments," he says. "The Bull's been pushing the Boar into one universe for the last ten thousand years. Yours. But while it was with the spear, you — we — couldn't get to it. And it was watching us too closely, so it had to be someone else." He shivers, just a little. Donnie crushes the urge to lay a hand on his shoulder, _something_, to try and comfort the slow grief moving just below the surface. Then the other Donnie looks up, and smiles again. "It worked," he adds. "The Boar's all one piece now. You can kill it."

Donnie's eyes move helplessly to the spear. The pain in his head grows as he stares at it. How much is it costing this other Donnie to hold on to it so tightly?

"You have to go now," says his double. "This world's almost done. You don't want to be here when it goes."

"What about you? You can't just —"

His double shakes his head. "I'm staying. I'll go up top, one last time, and wait. It's been a while since I saw the sky."

Twenty years and more, enough time for a daughter to grow up, for brothers to get old. There's nothing Donnie can say to the turtle standing in front of him that won't somehow sound like gloating.

"Why couldn't the Bull come get the spear itself?" he asks instead. "It's…it's a god, right? Shouldn't it have been able to just take it?"

The other Donnie almost grins, like the question's exactly what he wanted to hear. "The spear works both ways," he says. "What kills the Boar, kills the Bull. It won't come close."

_I wonder why that is_, Donnie thinks, reading the same thought on his double's face. He wouldn't be able to stop himself from taking the Bull's heart out along the way home, if he had half a chance.

"Was it worth it?" Donnie asks.

His double closes his eyes, curving in on himself. "It was worth it, as long as the Boar dies."

The light around them flickers, down to almost total darkness. When it comes back up, dimmer than before, the other Donnie's staring at the ceiling with his mouth set in a grim line. "It's starting," he says. "You need to hurry. Take it." He closes the space between them and shoves the spear at Donnie. "_Take it_."

Donnie slides his bo back into its holster as the light flickers again. He tries to brace himself for the pain before he takes the spear from his double's hands, but the shock of it leaves him reeling. While he tries to catch his breath, the other Donnie grabs him by the shoulders and spins him around. Thirty feet feet ahead of them, the air ripples, and splits open on a bird's-eye view of a dark, rubble-strewn street. Shapes move, distorted like they're underwater, but Donnie can make out a few bright bursts of color as they dart back and forth: red, orange, blue.

"Oh my god," he whispers, caught by relief and homesickness in the same instant. Home. His _brothers_. They're alive.

"You can kill it," the other Donnie hisses in his ear, pushing him forward. "You can. You _will_. And —" they're almost at the portal now, running together, sharing the agony of the spear between them — "April's alive."

He shoves Donnie forward while the words are still ringing through his head, over the headache and the roar of the portal, and then Donnie falls like a shooting star, burning like one too, toward the street below.

* * *

The Donnie who belongs to the dying world watches the portal snap closed behind the Champion, and lets out a long, heavy breath. The light flickers overhead as he turns toward the stairs. He's got a long way to climb, with a lot of old bones and muscles to slow him down, but what he said to the Champion goes for himself as well. It's time to go.

The spire's shrinking; already it's half the size it was when the Champion first came inside, and it takes barely three minutes for Donnie to reach the door. It purrs open as he approaches, and then he breathes the first free air he's had in almost thirty years. It's too dark to see the courtyard, but he knows where his family is. He saw it all. The Boar made sure of that, before it vanished. It made him watch for decades, while April starved and his brothers died by inches, while Alice —

He says her name, poor lost daughter, and stumbles on the first step. There's barely enough oxygen left to get him down the stairs, but he makes it, and then collapses at the base, gasping and clutching at his chest.

_I've played my part_, he thinks at the Bull. He's not naive enough to think he'll get an answer, or even be heard at all. _Now give me what you promised. Let us be done. _

He's so tired of being alive. At least that's one punishment he won't have to bear much longer. He rolls onto his shell, spreading his arms wide as he can, and turns his face up to the sky.

"Won't be long now," he says to his family, as the first stars go out.

Some things are too big to wrap your head around. Raph can handle gods, monsters, fairy tales coming to life, but his brain stalls out when the first building shatters into dust.

_There are people in there_, he thinks over and over, even though a tiny part of him knows it's time to start using the past tense. Whatever's inside the building now is the consistency of a milkshake. _There are people in there. _

Then the next building goes down, and the screaming starts. Not just one voice, but dozens of them, all shrieking at the top of their lungs — screaming for help, or for someone, or just screaming without words. Raph can handle that too, screams aren't anything new, but what kicks him in the gut is how fast the screams cut off. New screams start, farther away as the next building goes down, and the next, but they don't last for long either. It takes maybe ten seconds for them to get drowned out by the sound of the buildings collapsing.

His brain tells his arms and legs to move, but the signal gets lost somewhere along his spine. All Raph can do is choke when the wall of dust hits them and listen to the Boar laugh. It just smashed two city blocks to rubble and it's _laughing_.

The first layer of shock crumbles off Raph's brain. Still plenty to go, nice heavy layers that keep him from thinking about how many people just got pulped, but his body's listening to his brain again. He may not be able to handle what just happened —

_slaughter_

— but the Boar's still laughing, and Raph knows exactly what to do with the anger boiling past the numbness blanketing his brain.

Mikey got the same idea, just a little bit faster — he's two steps ahead of Raph before Raph manages to get his feet in gear, nunchuks spinning, all without yelling or any painfully stupid trash talk. He's so quiet it's freaky, the loudest noise the way his feet crunch on the broken asphalt, and Raph feels like a bomb going off by comparison.

Whatever. Noise doesn't matter, making that laugh _end_ does.

"Guys! No!" Leo wails, grabbing at Raph's arm as he runs past, but Raph's way beyond listening to Leo now. His brain's firing off a long series of commands, and they're all _smash break destroy_. Music to his ears.

The Boar looks up without pulling its hands out of the street, and grins as it watches them come. There's maybe fifteen feet to cover, barely enough to build up any momentum, but Raph's got enough muscle to make up for that. He made sure Slash would have to text with his tongue for the rest of his pathetic life, he can keep the Boar busy long enough for Leo to come up with a way to get everyone out of the danger zone.

Mikey's already midair with a length of chain clenched in his fists by the time Raph jumps. His sai are solid cool weights in his hand, the most real thing he's ever touched, and he's got his anger leashed, focused on the cracked-porcelain face below him.

He's only going to get one hit, but he's gonna make it a good one.

Leo yells his name, only a step behind now, but he might as well be miles away. Raph's gone, Raph's flying.

Then Mikey's kusarigama blade rips its mouth open from ear to ear. It howls, yanks its hands out of the street to try and shove its face back together as it spits out thick black blood by the mouthful.

_Not today_, Raph thinks, happy for the first time in weeks, a smile tickling the back of his throat like a sneeze, and aims for its eyes.

Mikey skids away to give him room to hit, rolls to his knees with his eyes whited out and all his teeth bared, but then his mouth drops open, and he's yelling Raph's name along with Leo.

Training overrides anger, and he pivots as soon as he hits the ground. He's close enough for the Boar to grab him, but it lets him slip past, out of reach, to come up panting on its other side.

"_What_?" he starts to yell, but shuts his mouth with a snap when he catches the sheen of the streetlights on Mikey's kusarigama.

It's melting. Wherever the Boar's blood touched it, the metal's dripping away in fat, silvery clots. Raph grips his sai a little tighter, grateful Mikey and Leo warned him before he messed them up, but that can't be all that freaked them out.

He darts a quick glance around the street, filing away the sirens and yells to deal with later, and locks his eyes on the Boar. It's got its eyes squeezed closed even though that's not doing anything to stop the run of black water from under its eyelids. The whole top half of its robe is stained grey by the water, and Raph catches a whiff of it on the air: rotting wood and some sticky-sweet plant, maybe. Something _old_, whatever it is.

Raph backs away. The Boar's stopped pulverizing the city, which is definitely a good thing, but it's not over yet. Not by a long shot.

Slash tries to shove himself up, then makes a weak whuffling noise and thumps back down on his plastron. Raph shoots him a look, and gets a full blast of hate from the half of Slash's face that he can see. But Slash can't get up, so he's not that worried.

What worries him is the Boar, who's not just shaking anymore, but lighting up, with that white shine breaking through the cracks in its face. Its robe starts to peel and flake away on the breeze — underneath, its skin is just as white and smooth and blank, no bumps or curves anywhere — and then its hair starts to fall off in thick clumps, till the Boar just gives itself one big shudder and the rest of the rags fall to the street.

"Oh, sh —" whispers Mikey.

Before he can finish, the Boar throws back its head and roars. Raph watches its spine bend in a perfect curve, bones and skin popping like firecrackers — but what makes his brain shut down all over again, are its feet. Which aren't really feet at all. They're hooves.

_Of course they are._ Raph feels his concussion for the first time. _I hate magic. _

The Boar's head jerks toward him, the torn flaps of its mouth twitching. "Do I startle you, my angry little beast?" it asks.

"You're disgusting," Raph shoots back, because what he's looking at makes the back of his eyes itch and his skin feel two sizes too small. "You're just a —"

"Monster." The Boar tilts its head, mouth still trying to pull up into a smile. Raph starts to look away, but the black eyes find his and he's locked in place. It flicks a black-clawed finger at him. "Freak. Creep. Fiend. Demon." It licks its lips, more black water pattering to the asphalt. "All these things, I am," it says. "But at least I am not an _animal_."

It finally manages to smile, just in time to slam that last word home. Raph feels it in every muscle. The way Mikey and Leo flinch into themselves, just a little, they do too. This is the one thing they can't fight their way out of, even if they're all fighting together. Doesn't matter how many battles they win, doesn't matter if they somehow win this one, the world's going to see an animal first when it looks at them.

The Boar can pass for human whenever it wants. Maybe not for long, because sooner or later your brain says _wrong wrong wrong_ and then the magic trick starts to fall apart, but long enough to get what it wants. It let go of that disguise because it wants to. Because it can, and because it wants them to know that, right before it kills them.

The sirens stop when they get to the edge of the wreckage. Someone's talking on a megaphone, trying to get people to safety, but it's happening in another world. The cops and EMTs won't get close till they know it's not a bomb, which buys Raph and his brothers a little time, but it's not going to be enough.

Raph jumps. _Go for the throat this time_.

The world lurches while he's in mid-air. He's close enough to see the way the Boar's skin peels away from the muscle underneath, how something white but not bone gleams inside its head, and how its eyes leak greasy drops that roll down its cheeks like oil.

Something's changed.

It's too late for him to change direction, but as soon as he lands he rolls away, coming up on the Boar's other side, in full sight of anyone watching from the end of the street. Too late to care about that now.

From where he's sitting, Raph can't see the Boar's face, but he can see the way its whole body trembles, just a tiny, all-over shake.

"There has never been _two_," it says, not to him or Slash or anyone at all, but with its face lifted to the sky and its long fingers twisting into knots. Raph's lungs and throat burn with sudden cold, because he's never heard anything put that much _hate_ into a single sentence. Not just hate — horror, confusion, defiance, all of it wrapped in that ancient, glassy hate.

The air ripples again, and a white-out like one of Donnie's flashbang grenades floods his vision. By the time he's blinked his way clear again, gasping and knuckling tears out of his eyes, the Boar's dug its hands back into the street, teeth bared and face still tilted up and back.

Thunder rolls in the distance.

Raph locks eyes with Leo and Mikey, forgetting the Boar for a heartbeat as a tremor starts to build under their feet. The warhounds bunch together under the cage or chunks of asphalt, so Raph knows whatever's coming is a whole new kind of bad. If he turns his head, he could see what Slash is doing, but he doesn't really care that much to begin with, and stops caring at all when the ground fractures like glass, and clouds of steam boil up from the cracks.

"Get back! Get back!" Leo yells. He grabs Raph's arm and yanks him back, scrabbling for Mikey at the same time, but a geyser bursts out of the street between them before he catches hold. Raph watches, gut churning, as Mikey disappears behind a wall of steam.

Mikey starts to scream. There might be words buried in there, but Raph can't make them out. He tries to bulldoze his way through the steam — move fast enough and maybe he won't get cooked — but Leo yanks him back, hollering something in his ear that Raph doesn't understand. So much noise, the steam and the screaming and the ground ripping apart and the Boar's laughing again, loud enough to be heard over everything else. Raph looks back as Leo drags him to the sidewalk and shoves him up against a mailbox, hard enough to make his shell shriek when he hits the bruised parts, and the Boar's just visible between the billows of steam. Its mouth dangles loose and the steam cooks its skin right off its muscles, but the Boar keeps laughing, while the street shatters.

"We gotta get Mikey!" Raph bellows at Leo. He tries to shove past — he thinks Mikey was over there, but he can't be sure, everything's turned around and he can't breathe without boiling his lungs — but Leo pushes him back down.

A belch of super-hot air rolls overhead, close enough to burn their skin but not to kill them. Raph grits his teeth — pain's nothing, he's got to get to Mikey — and throws Leo off him to charge toward the last place he saw Mikey.

Mikey's gone when he gets there.

"Gone, gone, gone, my sweet lovely boy, they will all be gone!" The Boar's voice fills the world. "You can come but they will be dead and I will use my teeth on you, teeth and hooves and it will last forever, yes, my sweetness, my —"

Raph tries to scream at it, _shut up, you're nothing, you're dead_, but the edge of a geyser catches his left arm, and he just screams. This isn't pain he can crush and ignore, it's everywhere, eating him alive.

_Not like this_, he thinks, before the pain flattens every thought in his brain. He's not going to die like this. It's not going to end like this.

He drops to his knees. There's no air to breathe, and he can't feel anything on his left side. No way out. Just heat, burning him out of his body, into a hungry white light.

And there are teeth, waiting for him there.

"_Raph_!"

He opens his eyes. All he sees are walls of steam, no matter where he looks, but someone called his name. He's not alone. It's enough to make him push to his feet, one-armed, and stagger around in a circle. "Leo?" Raph yells. "Mikey?"

The steam rolls back into the cracks in the street, so quick Raph nearly pukes from the sudden rush of cold air. His left arm's a dead mess, he can't even look at it yet, but that's fine. He can see someone walking toward him through the fading steam, and they're the one calling his name.

Donnie's home.

* * *

When Raph starts to fall, Donnie catches him under the right arm, careful not to brush against his burns. The spear vibrates in his hand, jolts of agony pulsing through every nerve in his body, but it's all secondary to Raph's dazed smile when their gazes meet.

"Nice timing, nerd," Raph rasps, then sags against him. "M—Mikey, where's Mikey and Leo?"

"They're here," Donnie says, glancing around to make sure he's not a liar. But there's Leo, lying on his shell and gasping for air, and Mikey a few feet away, cradling the side of his face. They're burned, and battered, but they're alive. "They're okay," Donnie adds.

Raph sighs, and lets his head loll against Donnie's shoulder. "Now or never," he murmurs, and then slides out of Donnie's grip completely. He's still breathing, and that's the only reason Donnie lets go.

That, and the sight of the Boar at the other side of the street. It stands up, long fingers twitching as it draws them out of the street.

"Donatello," it says. It doesn't smile.

The spear spasms hard enough to knock the wind out of Donnie's lungs. He rocks back on his heels, as much from the spear as from the look of utter contempt the Boar levels at him. A face that wrecked shouldn't be able to telegraph pain, let alone _hate_, but it does, so intensely Donnie feels it crawling over his skin.

"So you have come to kill me," says the Boar. "But I will burn you first." It throws both arms wide, and a blazing ring of fire springs up around it, ten feet high and climbing. The flames lick at the sky, bone-white and reeking of burned meat, and behind them the Boar smiles at Donnie.

_Come for me. Let us make an end, my sweet boy, my Champion._

"Now or never," Donnie says to himself, as the pain wracking his body crests. The flames blind him as he runs toward them, and their stench makes him choke, but he doesn't stop. He never has, he never will. Of all the truths in his life, that's the only one he believes.

He leaps with the spear held high in both hands, and clears the flames by mere inches. Below him, the Boar watches him fall, its arms still open.

At the last minute, it swings one arm inward, and buries its claws in his thigh. The pain's small compared to the spear, but it burrows deep.

He hits the ground without feeling the impact. What he feels instead is astonishment, and denial, and hunger — and relief so faint he must be imagining it. A blurred flood of images fill his mind to overflowing: blood spattered on snow, steam rising from the lake, and a fur-coated hunter, shouting as he raises a spear.

Donnie comes back to himself with the Boar's claws still buried in his thigh, and its free hand wrapped over his own where he grips the spear. It's shivering, black water flowing from its ears and nose, and it's still smiling.

"You sweet boy," it whispers, the words still clear through the roar of the fire. "You perfect little beast. Kill me, and what comes after will make all my hungers seem like blessings. They sleep in the dark waters, and they do not understand hunger. They will come, they are already waking — but only if I die."

"You're going to die," Donnie spits. He tries to pull his arm free, but the Boar clings to him, its mouth inches away. "I'll kill you, I'll kill you —"

"They have said that _every time_," the Boar hisses. "I remember you, I know your smell, my sweet boy, it has greeted me in every world and I have eaten them all, they promised me death each time and _failed_." It digs its claws into his thigh, ready to tear him apart, vein by vein, and smiles. "You failed, the girl failed, and I will always eat, always, unless you join me. My lovely Donatello, I ask you, one last time, to join me, do my good work, and I will let your family live."

Donnie sucks in a breath against the pain. His knuckles are swollen, burning lumps. His vision wavers in time with his pulse. No telling how much blood he's lost already. He has to get free. Nothing else matters.

"All of them." The Boar lets go of his hand, and strokes his face. He flinches away, but its touch is light. It's almost kind.

The moment the Boar touches him, all Donnie's lurid fantasies of a fight vanish. There won't be some glorious battle, or even a continuation of the ugly street-brawl his brothers were just waging. That's not his part to play. The end to this whole nightmare comes down to him, a promise, and a choice.

Somewhere, under the pain, under his anger and shame, Donnie's almost disappointed. It would have been easier, that way.

But _easy_'s never been part of his life, has it?

This choice could be. He could take the deal, save his family, and let the Bull start fresh with some new idiot who just wants to do the right thing. It would be so easy. All he would have to say is _yes_.

And if what the Boar says is true, if something worse really does sleep in the cold between universes, then he _should_ say yes. Save what you can. Adapt. He'll find a way. He always does.

The Boar senses his hesitation; it pulls its claws from his leg, and backs away. Its smile trembles, wet and eager, ready to give him anything he asks if he just gives its life back.

All he has to do is lean forward, or let go.

"Donatello," the Boar purrs, stroking the air between them. The lights inside its head dim, and slow their darting spirals. "My sweet boy, come with me, sit at my right hand, be mine and you will live forever."

_Mine_.

The word arcs through him. _Be mine_, like he's a pet, like he's a _slave_, something to be owned and ordered and chained, until the last universe dies and he's forgotten what it's like to run high over the city with his brothers. Hidden, but free.

"My boy," purrs the Boar, reaching for him again. "Come to me."

He shakes his head, disgust welling up through his exhaustion. The game ends, _now_, the way the first Champion promised that it would: with the spear splitting the Boar's heart in two.

If that greater evil comes, he'll be ready. He made this promise a long time ago, and breaking it means he loses everything he is. He fixes. He _heals_.

He always will.

"Maybe they come," Donnie's says, as his tongue goes cold, holding the Boar's black gaze till his eyes water. "Maybe they don't. But today, you're done."

Its shriek cracks the air like thunder. Donnie's eardrums swell, the bones in his hands start to crack - but he hauls himself up, screaming back, and plunges forward.

The Boar's claws shred his skin like wet paper as cold, slimy water gushes over his hands, and a burst of desperate joy fills him. Almost there -

With one last cry, he uses the last of his momentum to drive the spear through the Boar's shriveled-root heart.

"You -" the Boar says, but the rest of its sentence is washed away by the stinking black flood pouring from its mouth. It pulls itself down the spear's shaft toward him, spitting and clawing at his plastron, but Donnie shoves, and the spear bursts through the Boar's spine.

It makes a faint, bewildered sound, and drops to its knees. "Not over," it wheezes, gurgling deep in its throat.

"It is for you," Donnie hisses back.

The Boar slashes at him, again, and again, clawing deep gouges in his arms. One even catches him across the face, and he feels it over the bones in his fingers grating together, but he shoulders the new pain, adds it to the pile and pushes forward, inch by deadly inch.

The Boar whines, wordlessly pleading, clutching at his face and baring its teeth and gasping, all while the black water spatters them both and fills the ashy air with the heavy smell of jasmine. Donnie doesn't blink. He doesn't breathe. Every thought, every memory, everything that he is or ever was is pressed flat, like light bent by a black hole, by the one implacable promise in the universe: _I will fix it. _

"Please," the Boar whispers, the word light as dust, and twice as dry.

Donnie sneers, contempt blazing past the agony in his hands for a split second. All that hunger and power, and it's _begging_. He holds the spear steady, and watches as the Boar's mouth goes slack and a slow breath rattles out of its mouth.

Its hands drop from his cheeks, hit the ground with dull thuds. Its head rolls back, blank grey eyes turned to the night sky, and the pain from the spear vanishes.

Last of all, the lights inside its head go dark.

The spear falls out of his hands. Behind him, the flames dip low, roll back into themselves, and melt away into clouds of rank smoke. He waits for a sign, a noise, anything that tells him that it's over, but nothing comes. There's just him, standing in a ruined street, counting the slow beats of his heart. When the flames are gone, the only sound left is his breathing. Again.

He drops to his knees. The Boar's hair hides its face, but he barely notices. He barely sees the Boar at all, or the wreckage around it, just like he doesn't hear the sirens. All he can do is sit, and stare down at his newly-crooked fingers and the blood leaking sluggishly from his thigh and arms.

A hand falls on his shell, and then another, and another. When faces appear in front of him, he can't quite recognize them. He should, he knows that, he should care about the blue and green eyes that meet his - but he can't. He doesn't have anything left.

"It said it wasn't over," he tells the faces. It's not enough, and now he's shaking, his whole body spasming and he can't stop, he can't think anymore except about how his hands hurt and his legs hurt and he's so tired he can't even remember his own name.

They lift him up, arms wrapped around his shell and soft voices murmuring, so he lets them guide him away from the dead woman in the middle of the road. He looks back once, and sees that it's not a woman at all. It's just a pig, a white pig covered with dirt and blood. Even that isn't what he sees, not really, but the edges waver like trees caught in the wind, and he cringes away from what the pig's body is hiding. Some things aren't meant to be looked at.

"It's done," someone says, the person on his right. Raph. It's Raph, burned and bloody but _Raph_, and he's smiling.

"I -" Donnie says, but he gives up before he can finish the sentence. _I don't believe it_. Instead, he picks up the spear with his good hand, waiting for the pain to crash through him again. No pain comes. It's just wood now, wood and metal and a little dried blood.

"Just in case," he says to no one at all, and starts walking toward the alley.

Donnie makes it three steps before his legs give out, but that's okay. His brothers are here. He can lean on them, for a little while.

* * *

Not to worry - there's an epilogue coming, to wrap up all the loose threads.

As always, thank you for reading.


End file.
